


The Bird Outside My Window

by sizhanu



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Amnesia, Inspired by Autumn's Concerto, M/M, Mark loves Lee Donghyuck ONLY!!, Mpreg, Teenage Pregnancy, angst with a happy ending but everything in between is fair game, chaebol!mark, don't read if you respect yourself, singleparent!donghyuck, unnecessarily sentimental, white collar crime lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 100,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23812744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sizhanu/pseuds/sizhanu
Summary: In his heart, he bids farewell to his youth. Never will he worry for someone the way he had worried for Lee Minhyung. Never will he yearn for someone the way he had yearned for Lee Minhyung. Goodbye to the halcyon days and summer nights. Goodbye to his dreams and his fears. Goodbye to Lee Minhyung who had abandoned the world for someone like Lee Donghyuck. Goodbye to Lee Minhyung who had loved him since the beginning of time.Alternatively: Donghyuck is pregnant with Mark's baby. He runs away and raises the child as a single parent. 10 years later, they meet again.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Comments: 2077
Kudos: 2173





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> ART CREATED BY: [the very lovely aiijuns](https://twitter.com/aiijuns)  
> [CHAPTER 2](https://mobile.twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1257101983955079168)  
> [ALSO CHAPTER 2](https://twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1257446814971723776)  
> [CHAPTER 10](https://twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1257589642880155654?s=21)  
> [ALSO CHAPTER 10](https://twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1259204926057484288)  
> [MINHYUNG](https://twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1260829114602188802?s=21)  
> [LUCAS](https://twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1260493983995789313?s=21)  
> [DONGHYUCK](https://twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1261746338254864384)  
> [ALSO DONGHYUCK](https://twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1261746453275226112)  
> [HAPPY FAMILY](https://twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1263539401180798977)  
> [CHAPTER 12](https://twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1265395675962826752)  
> [CAFE LAYOUT](https://twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1265689780093771776)  
> [SUNSHINE CAFE CREW](https://twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1266821932416036864)  
> [MINHYUCK](https://twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1266898540820787201)  
> [CHAPTER 21](https://twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1267669678291222530/)  
> [CHAPTER 14](https://twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1280328232529584128)  
>   
> [CHAPTER 17 by Naighy](https://www.instagram.com/p/CA_GezBAi71/?igshid=3wfs6b9za7ye)  
> [CHAPTER 16 by talented lacie_draws and commissioned by illnsoul](https://twitter.com/illnsoul/status/1283597122898669568?s=21)

Donghyuck wakes into dawn like the the last note of a sad ballad song. Outside, the sky breaks into strips of orange and yellow, filing above his skin. They cast Busan in a strange glow, so brilliant, it engraves itself behind his eyes. Resting on the window sill of the hotel room is an abandoned nest and he muses that there must have once been eggs.

He strokes his naked abdomen where Minhyung’s hands rest inches below. His fingers ghost the soft terrains of his flesh where they are flat and unassuming. He finds the situation humorous but cannot bring himself to smile. Minhyung’s chest remains hot against his spine. The cold December air outside changes nothing.

He imprints the moment into the gorges of his mind. A delicate thing like this should be kept away from the rest of the world. He breathes and Minhyung breathes with him. His hushed breaths graze the nape of his neck. Then, he counts to ten. The numbers burn their way up from the ridges of his throat. He detangles himself from Minhyung's arms, heads to the bathroom, where hot water colors his skin red and bitter toothpaste lingers under his tongue. He packs his belongings with shaking hands, head emptied. 

He imagines the day as another weekend getaway. When Minhyung wakes, they’ll return to Seoul together and brunch with Eunji and Jeno and Jaemin. After, they’ll go Christmas shopping until they have dinner at The Shilla. Then, when the sun begins to set, they'll saunter along the cold paved paths of the Hangang. It is easy to pretend even if that is all there is to it. Because when the effects of the sleeping pill fade, Minhyung will wake to an empty bed inside an empty room. He will go back to Seoul alone. And he will meet the group alone. And he will shop alone and eat alone and walk alone. If everything goes according to plan, Lee Donghyuck will cease to exist in Lee Minhyung's life. 

He folds his clothes. Then he refolds them. He packs. Then he unpacks. Then he packs again. He stays as long as time will allow him to. One more minute, one more second, one more moment. He runs out of moments when Busan's morning traffic breaches the buzz of the silence. The first blue breaks between the oranges and yellows imitating cracks in a painting.

He does not look back.

In his heart, he bids farewell to his youth. Never will he worry for someone the way he had worried for Lee Minhyung. Never will he yearn for someone the way he had yearned for Lee Minhyung. Goodbye to the halcyon days and summer nights. Goodbye to his dreams and his fears. Goodbye to Lee Minhyung who had abandoned the world for someone like Lee Donghyuck. Goodbye to Lee Minhyung who had loved him since the beginning of time.


	2. Chapter 2

On his flight to Jeju-do, Donghyuck sits next to a handsome man in an uncomfortable suit. The stranger’s eyes are glued to his phone where he scrolls through his e-mails with a frown on his face. When he slides the page away, it reveals his screensaver: a picture of a beautiful man with a young child in a yellow hat. The man catches him staring and they share a polite smile. He looks away.

The flight attendants come by with drinks and snacks. He asks for a water bottle, forgoes the crackers and spends the rest of the flight greeting the white plains outside the window. He strokes his stomach absentmindedly. The continuous kicking that has not stopped since he boarded slows to a quiet rhythm.

He focuses on the hum of the plane. Then, the quick dissonant taps of the laptop behind him. The bathroom door slides open. Then, it slides close. The man next to him falls asleep. His snores are loud and obnoxious. It grates his fellow passenger's peace.

But his mind is miles away in a hotel room off the coast of Busan. The effects of the sleeping pill must’ve faded by now. Minhyung must be awake. He’s angry, he knows. He must be furious. He can only imagine the havoc inside the hotel room right now. He hopes Minhyung hates him. Resent him the way he scorns the world. Resent him so that he will not want to see him again—so that he will not look for him.

The plane begins its descent. Jeju-do covered in sheets of white comes into view. Even in the comfort of the plane, the frigid December wind is merciless. They dance in the air sweeping up snow and debris across the atmosphere. Jeju-do reminds him of the boyhood he’d shared with Minhyung.

They had grown up on the outskirts of Seoul in a mansion that was too big and a city that was too loud. In a world only they were privy to, there were the long summer days and cold winter nights. He hungers for those days. A green hill behind the mansion had served as their kingdom and the calls of the cicadas on the large oaks had echoed into the august air like a summer symphony.

His father had been the personal driver for the president of Lee Conglomerate. When his mother passed during childbirth, the Lee’s had been kind enough to take him in as a companion for their heir.

Lee Minhyung is three years older than him. As a child, he’d been brash, hostile, and destructive. Despite the relationship that had bloomed from the meeting, when it came to their personality, it was undeniable to say that they were the Atlantic and the Pacific—at the core, they were the same but their differences were also large enough to divide them.

Growing up, Minhyung was a wild forest fire incinerating everything in his path. He was the wind and the rain. Igniting the flame came as easy as putting it out. It was this duality that had drawn them to each other. Looking back now, he reckons it was this attraction that had ruined them.

At 8 and 11, an unfortunate traffic accident left him an orphan and Minhyung without a father. In their shared grief and anguish only they knew, what had already been a strong relationship became a bond as unyielding as titanium. The world was confusing and chaotic—people driven by money, conversations ruled by nuances. It was only natural that they had found solace in each other’s company.

Minhyung’s almost suffocating possessiveness did not leave much room for guessing. Eventually, everyone came to accept that the young pretty boy who followed Lee Conglomerate’s heir around was not to be touched. Years later, when they were old enough to put the feelings into words, Minhyung had told him he was his fuse. He was his salvation and a reprieve from the spiteful world. And for him, who had lost everything, Lee Minhyung became his entire world.

If life is a book, then there is no chapter in his that is not titled Lee Minhyung. And if relationships are defined by invisible red strings, then there is no fiber in his body that is not tied to Minhyung’s. Lee Donghyuck belonged to Lee Minhyung and it was as true as the sun rising from the east.

But all of that is behind him now. Starting from today, he is Lee Haechan. There is no more Lee Donghyuck and above all there is no more Lee Minhyung. Everything that has happened will be sweep by the wind. He says goodbye to Lee Donghyuck and Lee Minhyung and exits the plane.

* * *

Sunshine Town sits on the northeastern coast of Jeju-do like a hidden jewel. It is the third exit off the major highway overlooking the southern coast of the Korean peninsula. On nights when the sky is clear and the air is clean, he can make out the yellow lights of Yeosu flickering in the distance like a secret code waiting for him to decipher.

Sunshine Town's population is smaller than the high school he'd attended in Seoul. However, the warmth of the townspeople is immeasurable. He’d arrived in the middle of December, two weeks before Christmas, pregnant and lost with a jersey number to his bank account. Changing all his personal information, getting a new phone, and buying a flight ticket had not been cheap. Fortunately, when he’d stumbled into Sunshine Town to answer a job inquiry, the villagers had welcome him with open arms. They accepted him unconditionally and asked nothing of his background nor his condition.

It has been three months since he left Minhyung. He lives as Lee Haechan now. He works six days a week at a coffee shop for a grandma who calls him ‘sunshine.’ His neighbor is a middle-aged Chinese couple, immigrated from Hong Kong years ago. They run the Chinese restaurant below his apartment and have a son, Yukhei, who is one year older than him. He buys groceries every other day from Mr. and Mrs. Jang and tutors Mrs. Park’s grandson, Jisung, on Friday nights.

On Sunday afternoons, he goes to the green cliff at the edge of the town. The cliff overlooks the Korean strait. It is often empty and quiet unlike the rest of the island plagued by tourists. The water beyond is blue like a good summer’s morning and the air is cool and refreshing on his skin.

Beneath his feet, the grass blades cut through his bare toes. He would stand there for a long time and he’d listen to the whistle of the wind and the sound of ocean waves crashing against the rock beds on the shore. Sometimes, he’d hear Minhyung’s voice, but the tides would sweep it away into the sea.

It’ll be a lie to say that he does not think about his life in Seoul. He reckons not many people could have experience the kind of life he’d lived when he had still been Minhyung’s person—all those impromptu trips to Paris, to New York, to Barcelona; the endless wardrobes off the runway specially altered for the perfect lengths of his limbs; countless evenings inside towering skyscrapers overlooking Seoul, a modern kingdom that has always belonged to the Lees.

The first month had been a huge learning curve but he quickly learned his misery only went as far as he allowed it. You always get up from where you fall. He cooks for himself three meals a day. He learns to fix the leaks, the paint peels, and the mysterious odors in his decrepit apartment. When he spills his guts out every morning, he cleans himself up. When he wakes up with swollen eyes he drags himself to work.

The minor inconveniences of his new life, however, cannot compared to the way he aches for Minhyung’s presence. He has spent countless nights imagining a life in a different place at a different time. He misses those halcyon days on that hill behind the mansion and the summer calls of the cicadas.

But he’s also learned that there is peace in simplicity. He eats alone and sleeps alone and the mundane days pass until it is spring again.

* * *

Time escapes his grasp and March creeps on him like a thief. He’s four months pregnant but it feels like there has never been a time where he wasn’t. The morning sickness has faded, replaced by the constant urge to use the bathroom. He’s convinced he has become as big as a whale.

Lemon—the temporary name he has given the baby because all he seems to crave are lemon drops—has helpfully developed a penchant for break dancing at 3 in the morning. But he is still alive. And the baby is healthy and happy (for the most part). There is not much to complain (there is, but he’d rather not test his luck).

His days are dull and uneventful. He finds that he likes it that way. Yukhei visits him often between his last year of high school. He is kind and conventionally handsome. He reminds him of Minhyung with his earnest smile and dedicated work ethic. When the café is quiet, he entertains him with his hopes and dreams, charming him with stories about Hong Kong. It is obvious Yukhei likes him. 

It would be easy to reciprocate the feelings. It would be easy to live a lie. But even the thought of it sickens him. He feels like he is betraying Minhyung. How can he bring himself to imagine a life with another man when he is carrying Minhyung’s child? Where would he begin to erase 17 years of history? How does he forget the person who had chose him above everything and everyone—who had loved him since the beginning of time?

So, he pretends he doesn’t know. He ignores the shy smiles, interpreting the kind gestures as nothing more than Yukhei being a good friend. It’s not fair but the world has never been fair to him either. His priority is Lemon. He doesn’t need love or companionship. Things like that hold no meaning for him. And so, the days continue to pass. March slips into May and May falls into June.

* * *

It’s the soft hum of the AC that wakes him. He blinks one eye open. His hands come to pull the cover closed to his body. He’s exhausted. Lemon had decided to hold a concert in his tummy keeping him up for a good part of the night. He’d managed to fall asleep as dawn broke but it feels like he’d only closed his eyes. He considers calling in sick but reconsiders when he sees the grey clouds peeping in from his windows. He’d rather not Halmeoni come out in this sort of weather.

He hauls himself out of the safe cavern of his sheets. It takes him a while not because of the temptation to sleep in but because of how huge he has become. He loses sight of his feet. When he finally finds his footing, he takes a good look at himself in the mirror. His hair curls into his neck. It brushes his shoulders. He laments on the stretch marks on his abdomen. Then, he goes through the daily motions with empty thoughts inside his head.

On his way down, he sees Yukhei who offers him a ride to the café. It’s not the first time they have done this so he climbs onto the back of Yukhei’s bike, sitting sideways. The morning summer air of Jeju-do is crisp and cold with the smell of a storm permeating the winds. He briefly wonders if he had taken the laundry inside last night.

He feels a bit nauseous from the lack of sleep so he wraps his arms around Yukhei’s waist and rests his head on his broad back. The roads of Sunshine Town become a blur of colors. Occasionally, he hears Yukhei call out a greeting but for the most part, the journey is quiet except for the steady beat of Yukhei’s heart.

They arrive minutes later. There’s a small crowd formed around the coffee shop and he knows it’s not because they’re lining up for his mediocre coffee. Yukhei helps him off the bike to support him up the steep incline of the road. The crowd parts as they push through revealing the center of their attention—a sleek black sedan that has been parked in front of the shop.

Among the humble low-roofed-buildings and rusting decrepit bikes, this expensive car stands as a lighthouse on the dirty unpaved road. When he catches the familiar plate on the car, his stomach drops. The passenger door of the car opens. Na Jaemin steps out looking like a million bucks. He wears a blank expression on his face but years of friendship have warned him of the storm that is coming.

“Do you want to die?”

* * *

Na Jaemin sits in front of him like a dream. He’s wearing an outfit that costs triple his monthly rent. He’s dyed his hair again into a faded pink matching the apron hanging on a nail by the wall. He looks like a dream but he can also see the bags under his eyes, the hangnails on his fingers, and the way his veins bulge blue and green from the way he’s clenching his fists.

He’s fuming. He never thought he would one day be the recipient of this quiet seething anger he has only seen Jaemin unleash a handful of times (he’d also never expected to run away to Jeju-do, cutting off all contact with all that he’s known, only to be discovered half a year later, so, he guesses there is a first time for everything).

“I can punch you, Lee Donghyuck. Smash your face until it’s bloody and blue so you can feel the pain you’ve put us through the past months.”

There’s no heat in the words, only fatigue and weariness of someone who had been on the verge of giving up.

“Don’t let the baby hold you back, Na Jaemin.”

“Don’t test me, Donghyuck. I will do it, baby or no baby.”

“Why are you here, Jaemin-ah?”

Jaemin laughs with no humor in his voice. Without any warning, he backhands the glass of water he had offered him earlier. It shatters into the deafening silence that follows. The shards catch the light and they reflect off his vision.

“Why am I here?” Jaemin scoffs, running a trembling hand through his styled hair. “Why the hell are you here? In the middle of fucking nowhere?”

He ignores the question. It’s not that he doesn’t want to answer, because the truth is that he doesn’t know either. He can’t find the proper words to put into proper sentences so he deflects. This bad habit of his—picked up through years of childhood trauma—has stayed with him even if he’s escape miles away to the boonies. Just because he’s changed his name and life does not mean that Lee Donghyuck is not a coward.

“How did you find me?”

“Is that all you care about? Do you even know what you’ve done?”

“If that’s all you came here to say, then I’m afraid I can’t entertain you for long. My shift begins soon.”

“LEE DONGHYUCK!”

Jaemin’s eyes blaze red. He’s a missile seconds before firing off and Donghyuck is his target. He’s not sure if there will be any part of him that can be salvage after this conversation. He’s pushed to the edge of the cliff and he’s stuck between jumping to his death or facing the explosion head-on. He finds his arms trembling and he pushes back as much as Jaemin gives.

“What! What do you want from me, Jaemin? Do you want to hear how miserable I am? How much I regret everything? Are you here to see how far I’ve fallen? Is that why you’re here?” His voice falls near the end, cracking into the heavy air and the fight leaves him. “What do you want from me?”

A still precarious silence follows his outburst only broken by the horn of the ship in the distance though the sound is muffled by the glass windows. He follows the path of the spilled water. The liquid reaches the space under the table cutting into a meandering stream. Jaemin sighs with hot breath mingling the junction between them.

“Who was that boy?”

He fights back his tears, wipes at his eyes with great strength so that the skin surrounding them burns with heat. Jaemin who is occupied with his fingers does not notice. 

“Who? Yukhei Hyung?”

“Is that his name? Is that who you’ve abandoned Minhyung Hyung for? 7 months and you’ve already moved onto some country boy? What? Are you going to tell the kid he’s his father too?”

Something inside him snaps like a rubber band pulled taut. Jaemin has always known how to push his buttons. He holds no hesitation in carving scars into his heart. They have always been each other’s greatest supporters and greatest enemy and even if the trap is right in front of his eyes with two bright arrows pointing at it, he falls for it under the influence of the fury whistling between his ribs caused by the implications of his horrid words. 

“Na Jaemin, you can say whatever you want but my relationship with Lee Minhyung is none of your concern. I know I’ve wronged him in many ways but the thought of being with someone else has never crossed my mind. Keep our relationship out of your dirty mouth.”

“You make yourself sound like a martyr, but do you even know what you’ve done?”

“What I’ve done? What I’ve done has kept him from making the worst decision in his life. He was going to burn the whole fucking world to be with me. And then what? We elope and live happily ever after? You’re telling me he’s not going to resent me a few years down for making him choose between me and his family? His inheritance?” He meets Jaemin’s eyes. He doesn’t know if the sorrow in his eyes reflects his own or if he is reflecting Jaemin’s grief. “His mother? How can I do that to him? How can I do that to Minhyung Hyung?”

His last words accompany his trembling breath. Their faces blaze red with anger and frustration wetting with ugly tears. The desire to take Jaemin into his arms, to assure him, and to apologize runs deep in his blood. Fear holds him back. He knows there is nothing more he can lose.

“Hyung is in the hospital because of you.”

The statement slams into his existence to throw him off the axis of the planet. His vision tunnels. Jaemin’s frigid voice arrives from miles away. His mouth moves to form words, multiple words that he cannot comprehend. Heat travels through his vein mutating into an Arctic coldness. 

“What?"

“He got into a car accident 7 months ago in Busan chasing after your fucking ass,” Jaemin laughs. “For 7 months while you were living in your selfishness, Hyung was hanging by a thread between life and death. He only woke up last week.”

His stomach churns and rolls in his abdomen to a rhythm he cannot follow. He is moments away from expelling his unraveled intestines onto the dirty floor. 

“You’re not going to ask if he’s okay?”

“There’s no point in me asking. There’s nothing that I can do for that person anymore.”

“Are you even human, Lee Donghyuck?”

“That’s right. I’m a horrible piece of shit. You should stop wasting your breath and take the first flight back to Seoul, Jaemin.”

“Hyung lost his memories because of you!”

This horrible churning and rolling of his stomach ceases just for a moment before returning with vengeance. He doesn’t register it’s because of Lemon’s kicking until the pain reaches his chest. He wraps his arms around himself. He wants to be as small as possible—so small he can blink out of existence.

  
“Eunji, Jeno, Me, his mother! You! Everyone and everything is gone because of you! Are you happy now? Is this the happy ending you wanted?”

Jaemin is relentless with his words. He’s merciless, driving the knife through skin, flesh, and muscle and he can only bleed for him. There is nothing else he can offer, nothing he can say.

“Say something! Are you going to keep quiet?”

He’d wished for Lee Minhyung hatred, but how can hatred exist if recognition does not? What does that make them? How can Minhyung feel anything for him when there is nothing to feel?

In the dark places of his mind, where he does not dare venture, he begins to wonder if this is better. Minhyung will not have to go through the pain of losing him. He can live his life without any baggage and he will spend the rest of his life paying the debt they owe each other.

Jaemin grabs his hands. The jarring movement breaks him from his thoughts. He holds them in his palms with the gentleness of someone who is handling an injured animal. His eyes beg his.

“Just…just come back. Let’s go back to Seoul together. Donghyuck-ah, come back and fix everything…please. I’m begging you. We don’t know how to do this without you. We…Hyung needs you. We can still fix this. You can’t do this to us. You can’t do this to Hyung. Think about the baby. What about the baby, Donghyuck-ah?”

What about the baby? He will raise Lemon. Lemon will grow up in this small town away from the rest of the horrible world. When Lemon is old enough he will tell him everything. And he’ll understand that this was the best choice—the only choice—and that he has nothing but the best intentions in mind. Lemon will grow up in this quiet town and he will grow old and alone and Minhyung can have his happy ending with the right person from the right family never knowing who Lee Donghyuck was to him.

“If you still have us in your heart…if you still have Hyung in your heart…please come back.”

His hand grazes Jaemin’s cheeks where tears seep into the spaces of his palm and in front of him, with Jaemin hopeful, with Jaemin weeping, he finds the world falling into an impenetrable lag. Time lingers between their heavy breaths.

“I can’t Jaemin. I..can’t. I can’t.”

The universe returns. Jaemin slaps his hands away.

“Fuck you, Lee Donghyuck.”

His hand stings. He sears the image of Jaemin walking away.

“Happy 18th by the way. I hope you rot in this fucking town.”

The door slams shut. The bell above it rings. The sound rebounds in the air.

Then there is nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

_The funeral home is quiet. Donghyuck’s father did not have a lot of friends. He was a kind man but his career left him no leeway to be sociable with his peers. Family members came and went and for the longest time, it was only him and his father. He hopes his father can do the things he wanted to do and make the friends he couldn’t make in the place he cannot reach._

_He’s only 8 and he’s tired. His legs ache from how long he’s been kneeling and he can’t remember the last time he’s eaten. Thinking hurts and there are only bad thoughts inside his head. Inside this small dead room, there is only him, the silence, and his father’s unmoving cold body. He’s only 8 and he’s scare. He feels like he can disappear at any moment—blink out of existence—and no one will know. No one will look for him and no one will care and he’ll go to that place where everyone keeps telling him he cannot go._

_“Lee Donghyuck.”_

_Someone calls his name. He falls into their embrace. He’s cold and the warmth of a breathing body lulls him away from the bad thoughts inside his mind. For a long while, he sits on Minhyung’s lap. His breaths come to match the synchronized drums of their slow heart. He breathes in the fragrant incense on Minhyung's suit._

_He must’ve returned from Ahjussi’s funeral. He wonders if he’ll be kicked out now that his father is dead. There’s no point in keeping him around if he is only going to be a liability. They might have tolerated him when his father was alive but that was only because Ahjussi was a nice man. Ahjumma is nice too but sometimes he gets the feeling she only endures him because of Ahjussi._

_He’ll have to drop out of the expensive elitist school they enrolled him in. Fine, he didn’t like the people there anyway. But he’ll miss Jaemin and Jeno. He’ll miss Eunji too even if she’s always stealing Minhyung Hyung away. Then what? He’ll have to find a job. He’s only 8. What can he do? He guesses he can wash dishes and deliver newspapers. Do people still get their newspaper delivered to them? What about his living quarters? He’ll have to stay in one of those 24/7 cafés he’s only seen on television. He’ll survive on ramen and bibimbap. No, bibimbap is too expensive. Dukbokki? Dukbokki is more affordable._

_“Donghyuck, stop thinking.”_

_He puts the thoughts of dukbokki aside, turns his head into the crook of Minhyung’s neck. His hyung has always been like a heater, running temperatures with the fire inside of him. Minhyung strokes his hair the way he would stroke Horangi, the family Samoyed._

_“Hyung, do they still hire people to pass out newspapers?”_

_“…What are you thinking of now?”_

_“I’m going to need a job after Ahjumma kicks me out.”_

_“Don’t be stupid. She’s not going to kick you out.”_

_“How do you know?”_

_“I’m not going to let her.”_

_“Oh.”_

_Minhyung pushes his head back down and he breathes in the strange mixture of incense and home. It’s quiet again and the evening light from the small window above them breaks through. It casts long shadows across so that their figures reflected on the floor seem bigger and older. He wants Minhyung to hold him like this even when they’re bigger and older. Even when they become taller and their voices become deeper and they start talking in the way adults talk, he wants to hold Minhyung like this, under the orange glow, in a cold and quiet room, skin to skin, heart to heart._

_The thought of the future fills him with a strange sadness different from the sadness he feels for his dead father and different from the way he feels when Eunji sometimes takes Minhyung’s attention and different from the way Ahjumma looks at him. It comes from somewhere unknown in a place he cannot reach and it fills his little body with so much grief and fear, he begins to cry into Minhyung’s shoulder until there is a small wet patch blooming on the ironed dress shirt._

_“I miss you, Hyung. Minhyung Hyung, I miss you,” he sobs in between breaths and it’s such a strange thing to say when Minhyung hasn’t gone anywhere but he misses him all the same. Minhyung can spend the entire day with him and he will still miss him. He doesn’t know if he’s missing for the future Minhyung or the old Minhyung or the Minhyung now but the distress that begins in his stomach, ending in his chest torments him like he’d swallowed a bunch of Lego pieces. I missed you, I miss you, I will miss you, he wants to say but the words don’t form and he is left crying until there is snot all over Minhyung’s nice expensive shirt._

_Minhyung unwraps the death grip he has around his neck and he thinks, this is it, this is the part where he throws him away and he’s going to have to miss Lee Minhyung for the rest of his life, but instead, Minhyung cradles his face into his soft palms to wipe the tears and snot away with his bare finger and it’s sticky and it’s disgusting but it is Lee Minhyung._

_“Nothing’s going to change, Lee Donghyuck. I’m not going to let anyone take you away and you’re not going anywhere. Your place is right here beside me. Hyung’s not going to let anything happen to you. Hyung will always choose you.”_

_“Even over Jaemin?”_

_“Even over Jaemin.”_

_“And Jeno?”_

_“And Jeno.”_

_“What about Eunji?”_

_“No matter what, I, Lee Minhyung will always choose you, Lee Donghyuck.”_

_Something warm and good and sweet floods his body and he carves the words into his heart, keeps it in the place only he knows how to reach. At night, he takes it out, tastes the words again and again on his lips. Lee Minhyung is the existence he has always been following. Even when the end of the world comes and nothing exists, they will still have each other._

* * *

The villagers talk. He doesn’t blame them. How can they not? Even kind people have mouths to gossip. They’ve concluded Jaemin is the father of his child. That he is a chaebol from the big city of Seoul and had paid him to have an abortion but had regretted it and soon chased him all the way to Sunshine Town.

Another version is that he is a chaebol who had a scandalous love affair, too afraid to go back home. The people of Sunshine Town had a penchant for the dramatics and the speculations around his life became their newest entertainment. He sees no need to address the baseless rumors and with nothing to fuel their gossip, the conjectures soon stop too.

In the middle of July, Yukhei returns to Hong Kong with Mr. and Mrs. Wong to visit family, and he is left alone for most of the summer in an empty café. It’s not that the café is unpopular, but in a hidden town tucked away from the world with an average age of 60 plus, business is rare. Two days after Yukhei leaves, Halmeoni goes back to Seoul for the birth of her third grandchild. She closes the cafe, gives him his pay for the rest of the month citing he needs to go out and enjoy the sun if he is going to be having a healthy baby.

He spends July by the green cliff under blue skies, cool winds accompanying a nagging grief in his chest. He doesn’t think of Minhyung. It’s like breathing—he’s not aware of it until he is—and suddenly, this action he’s been doing his entire life becomes this foreign thing. Thinking of Minhyung is like breathing to him. Always happening, always constant, but never in an active state.

Jaemin never visits again. He doesn’t call (he’s sure Jaemin has gotten a hold of his new number by now) and he doesn’t text and he has convinced himself that it is better this way.

One summer night, he walks himself to the green cliff in a hypnotized state. He stands at the edge, wonders if any of this is worth it. He’s reminded of a time inside a small white room where he had wanted to blink out of existence and had wondered if anyone would care to find him. The wind howls a sad song, picking up strength and speed and he’s stumbling back into the ground, a safe distance away from his demise.

He dry heaves and Lemon kicks at him in distress. He falls into the grass, arms and legs spread out the way Minhyung had taught him when they used to make snow angels in the yard, and he stares into the black sky and the black sky stares back and he screams into the air but the air doesn’t scream back.

“I miss you, Hyung. Minhyung Hyung, I miss you,” he cries and the wind sweeps the words away into that place he cannot reach.

* * *

On the last day of July, he checks into a hospital. 48 hours later, he finds himself in an emergency C-section. He’s not sure how things came to be but the past two days have been a whirlwind of emotion and pain.

  
Despite following his prenatal care to the T, Lemon has decided the 5 star resort that is his womb is too good to check out. So, here he is: cut open on a surgical bed like a specimen on a petri dish. He feels like a science experiment being examined under the microscope. There are two doctors and two nurses inside the room with him but he feels alone all the same.

They’ve placed a green fabric as a barrier between him and the surgical field and the occasional tugging and pressure he feels are painless but he finds himself crying anyway—ugly sobs and globs of mucus and the nurse brushes his hair back, whispers words of encouragement to him, and all he can think of is how excited Minhyung had been when he’d reveal the pregnancy.

God, what had he been thinking? What is he doing miles away from home in a foreign place with foreign faces and a baby? He wants to reverse time. He wants to go back to that night from that summer where he’d accepted Minhyung’s confession. He wants to go back to that night and keep all his selfish feelings to himself and it’ll hurt but he could’ve stayed by his side, the way Minhyung wanted him to. He should’ve shut up. He should’ve push Minhyung away. He should’ve stayed by his side quietly and softly. He should not want Lee Minhyung the way he does.

He blacks out. In the distance, someone is crying. He’s not sure if it is him or Lemon.

* * *

Lemon is a small thing. He measures 48.5cm and weighs 3.3kg. When he cries, his face scrunches in that ugly but charming way only babies can manage. Despite his size, Lemon is a fighter, constantly giving the nurses and doctors a hard time (which he should have seen coming from the daily karate shows he had hosted in his womb).

Looking at Lemon is like looking at Minhyung and aside from the cherry lips (which he claims), everything else has been copied and pasted from Minhyung. He reminds him of a baby Minhyung. If there is a God, then this must be divine punishment. 

However, he cannot deny, holding Lemon, the world falls away with his thoughts fading into the shadows. There are only Lemon and his cute shiny eyes staring at him like he’d put the stars in the sky. Where does he even begin? He feels like the entire world is in his arms. For the first time in a long time, he feels something other than regret. He wonders if this is fatherhood. In a small hospital room in a small town in small Jeju-do, he finds peace in 3.3kg and 48.5cm.

* * *

It is November 10th and Mr. and Mrs. Wong’s restaurant is decorated in blue and pink balloons. The entire village has been invited to Lemon’s Dol. One hundred days—one hundred beautiful days and one hundred sleepless nights. He has been a father for one hundred days (and counting).

It hadn’t been his idea to throw a huge party. He’d originally wanted a small affair with Halmeoni and Yukhei and the Wongs but apparently, everyone had been counting down the days since he gave birth. According to the village head, it’s been almost 30 years since a baby was born in Sunshine Town and Lemon’s birth became an auspicious sign for all the villagers. He wonders if it does take a village to raise a child.

It’s been almost an entire year now and nothing much has changed. He is still working six days a week at the coffee shop. Mr. and Mrs. Wong still treats him like a second son. Yukhei visits occasionally whenever he gets a break from university. And he is still going to the green cliff on Sundays. Only now, there is a baby in his apartment. Lemon eats with him, sleeps with him, and accompanies him to work. The simple days continue and it is peaceful.

He slips through the greetings and congratulations to the side of the room. There is a spread of traditional Korean meals sitting on the long table by the yellowed wall. He eyes the colorful ddeok stacked on top of each other precariously and he wonders if anyone will notice if he steals a bite.

“Look at your Appa, Lemon. Look at how he can eat without you.”

He whips his head, spotting Yukhei walking towards him. Lemon who is in his arms swings the plastic pacifier in his hand. He’s dressed like a Christmas tree – purple and pink clashing with gray and blue with golden stripes. He looks like a little Goryeo prince transmigrated from the past. He resists the urge to lay a bunch of kisses on the chubby cheeks.

“Yukhei,” he greets, giving Yukhei a side hug.

“Haechan,” he says, returning the affection. “Do you think I can get Lemon to call me Dad?”

It’s a joke in the usual Yukhei manner but something about the words churns the insides of his stomach. Like this, they must look like a family. The word is still a sore topic for him, a jar of worms he will not be opening anytime soon. Sensing his distress, Lemon whacks the wet pacifier against Yukhei’s cheeks leaving a trail of saliva. He makes grabbing motions towards Donghyuck who takes him into his arms. Yukhei pouts.

“Just say you hate Yukhei Samchon and go,” he says pointedly at Lemon.

Like this, the atmosphere is light again and he finds his heart softer and warmer with Lemon in his arms. By the doors, someone calls his name and he leaves Yukhei to his own devices. He coos at Lemon on his way to the door, starstruck by the way his wide and curious eyes reflect his own. He’s so mesmerized he doesn’t see the familiar black sedan parked in front of the restaurant and the person standing in front of it until someone calls his name again.

“Congratulations, Lee Donghyuck.”

* * *

He’s inside Na Jaemin’s car. Just like last time, Jaemin is decked in the latest F/W collection from some obscure brand only the wealthy shops. He ironically thinks of how he used to be one of those people and for a second, he feels shabby in his hoodie and jeans. It feels like déjà vu, though his hair is a dark brown now, and he wonders if it is a good idea to be in a locked car with Na Jaemin and a baby.

He feels bad as soon as the thought enters his head. Na Jaemin talks mean but he would never lay a hand on him as much as he threatens. The car is tinted but it doesn’t stop the aunties and uncles from camping at the entrance of the restaurant, trying their best to look natural and failing miserably.

“They’re not very subtle, are they?”

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Mrs. Jang push Mr. Jang’s head down for a better view. 

“They’re only worried about me.”

Jaemin nods. Then it is quiet again except for Lemon’s meaningless babbles. He isn’t mad but he isn’t sure of what to say either considering the last time they spoke, Jaemin had indirectly told him to go to hell. Lemon pulls at his hair, bringing it to his mouth. He pulls his hand away and brings it to his lips. He kisses the tiny fingers one by one evoking a giggle from Lemon. Jaemin watches quietly with a strange look on his face. 

“I can’t believe you spawned a little Minhyung Hyung. Are there any of you in him?” 

It’s the first non-hostile comment he’s exchanged with Jaemin so far since he left Seoul. Somehow, it feels like they’re back in high school again and commenting on everyday gossip at the rooftop during lunch. 

“Guess when his birthday is.”

“Well, since today is his 100th day then it should be August…are you serious?”

Jaemin’s eyes are wide enough, the whites overtake his pupils. He laughs. It had felt like a horrible prank the world played on him but now, it feels like an inside joke he shares with Jaemin. 

“He really is Lee Minhyung’s kid.” 

“Yeah, the irony is strong in this one, huh?”

A comfortable pause. 

“What’s his name?”

He bites his lips. He hadn’t had time to think of a name yet. First, it was getting over the shock of the pregnancy, then he had to move to Jeju-do, then he was busy with getting his shit together, then his conversation with Jaemin, then he gave birth, then he had one hundred sleepless nights, so forgive him for being late on the naming game. Jaemin sees through the excuses even before he admits it which doesn’t surprise him. With years of friendship, there’s nothing he can’t see. 

“Well,” Jaemin hesitates as if he’s arranging the words in his head. “Minhyung Hyung liked the name Minhyuck.”

He avoids Jaemin’s eyes to focus on Lemon’s messy hair, smoothing it down this way and that, the dark strands defying gravity.

“When did he tell you this?” He tries to act nonchalant but the way his voice goes high at the end gives him away. 

“I think it was a few days after you told him about the pregnancy. He called me out for drinks. He was so happy and needed to tell someone about his feelings but he didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

His stomach turns in that horrible, horrible way it does but it’s also bittersweet like a forgotten childhood memory or the end of first love. 

“How did he know the baby was going to be a boy?”

Jaemin shrugs. “I don’t know…a father’s instinct, I guess. He was so sure he didn’t even come up with a girl’s name.”

He nods. He says the name in his mind, once, twice, three times. Lemon looks at him curiously. 

“Thank you, Jaemin-ah.”

Jaemin clears his throat.

“Minhyung Hyung…he really…he cherished you a lot,” his voice shakes at the end and he doesn’t know what to say. Rather, there are too many things to say so instead, he says, “…I know. I know.”

The words swim in the air. Jaemin hands him a neatly wrapped box. 

“I got a gift for the baby.”

His face is red as if he is embarrassed to admit it. He plops Minhyuck in his lap so that he faces the front of the car. He brings his arms around to unwrap the careful packaging on Minhyuck’s little legs. When he rips the sleek black paper away, it reveals a red box. He opens it. Inside, there is a gold bangle. 

“Na Jaemin, did you get my 100-days old baby a Cartier bracelet?” 

What a Na Jaemin gift, he thinks. He runs his hand through the gilded gold. 

“Okay, in my defense, this is my first time being an uncle. Is this not enough? Should I have gotten the set instead? Cartier offered to make a matching necklace but –“

“You got this specially-made?”

“Of course. It’s for,” Jaemin pauses to look for his words, then with determination, he says, “…for my best friend’s baby.”

His throat tightens upon the words as if a family of rocks have lodge themselves into his trachea. He blinks his tears away to say, “Do…do you want to hold him while I put on the bracelet?”

Before Jaemin can make up his mind, he gently displaces Minhyuck onto Jaemin’s limited edition jacket. He hopes he’d remembered to change Minhyuck’s diapers just before Jaemin’s arrival.

“Oh! Oh..how, how do I, oh—"

The wonder in Jaemin’s eyes has grown familiar to him.

“He’s so tiny,” he whispers. 

“Say hi to Jaemin Samchon, Minhyuckie.”

Minhyuck babbles in that unknown language only he understands. He’s looking at Jaemin like he is the most amusing thing in his tiny world. Gold catches the afternoon light from the small slit of the window. It shines beautifully. Brilliantly. 

“I think he called me Hyung.”

He laughs then, it is a quiet again. They sit there for a long time inside the air conditioned car with the sun high in the distance, accompanied by Minhyuck’s bright eyes searching his surroundings. 

“Do you want to stay for the party? I’m sure they won’t mind an extra person.”

Jaemin’s face falls and he says, “No, I’m sorry. My flight’s in two hours. I only came to...”

The unspoken words are understood. In friendship as long as theirs, words don’t mean the way they do.   
  


He curbs the way his stomach falls, nods, and says, “That’s fine, Jaemin-ah. Have a safe trip back.”

He takes Minhyuck from Jaemin who looks like he is seconds away from stuffing Minhyuck into his suitcase. The chauffeur opens the door and the crowd by the entrance of the restaurant disperse like dandelion fuzz. Jaemin stays inside the car. They share a strong silent look. 

“Bye, Hyuck-ah. Take care.”

“Thank you, Nana. You take care too.”

Jaemin’s eyes refract from the autumn sun and he knows he has heard the words he’d wanted to say. Take care of Minhyung Hyung. Make sure he eats well, sleeps well, and rests well. Make sure he will not be sick. Make sure he will not be sad. Make sure he will never remember a person named Lee Donghyuck and the halcyon days they shared in that place they can no longer reach. 

He stands there for a long time even as the sedan pulls into the highway.

* * *

Minhyuck sits on a makeshift stage made of two wooden tables. In front of him are three items: a toy basketball, a microphone, and a printed picture of a stethoscope. He chews his lips. Minhyuck contemplates. Everyone watches with bated breath. Then, Minhyuck begins to crawl, his little limbs cruising by the ball, the microphone, the picture of the stethoscope until as if in lagged motion, he stops in front of him. With his stretched arms, he bridges the gap between them to rest his forehead on his stomach. His tiny body burns hot, his grip holds tight and he is reminded of a different time at a different place where sunlight had filtered through a small window and Lee Minhyung had promised him an eternity.

He is 18. He is 18 and he is the father of Lee Minhyuck who is 100-days old. He feels small. And he feels scared. There’s a place he cannot reach and a person he cannot see. Everything has fallen apart but his son is 5.1kg now and 51.3cm tall. The November wind is cool against his skin and the sun is bright behind his eyes. And he wonders, will he ever experience a day as glorious as today?


	4. Chapter 4

_Donghyuck has a theory. The amount of happiness in the world is finite and the amount of sadness in the world is infinite. When it isn’t his turn to be happy, he is sad. No one wanted to be sad but that is how the world works. He is sad until happiness comes to him and he can eat well and sleep well and love well but when it isn’t his turn to be happy then he can only be sad._

_The worst part about it is that he never knows when he will be happy next. It is not like there is a waiting list for him to consult and if every person of the seven billion people in the world had a millisecond of happiness, he will still have to wait a long time until his turn came. Thinking of all the sorrow and heartache in the world makes him sad and if he could, he would bottle all the misery in the world, throw it into the waters so that it would float down the Hangang until it disappeared into the Yellow Sea, falling off the face of the earth._

_He is 17 and inside him is a bundle of cells ignorant of everything outside his little sanctuary. This bundle of cells is 2 weeks old and it is his stash of happiness. It is the sort of happiness that is entirely his and the sort of happiness he does not have to share with anyone if he doesn’t want to. There is a tiny world forming inside of him and the universe has deemed him not worthy._

_“I know you’re planning on leaving Seoul this Saturday. Busan, was it?”_

_Ahjumma sits across from him like a queen judging her subject. When he was younger, he used to think the entire world belonged to the Lee’s. Ahjussi was the indomitable king and Ahjumma was his beautiful queen. Everything the light touched belonged to the Lee’s and their words were the law._

_Years later, nothing much has changed even with Ahjussi’s death. Seoul belongs to the Lee’s and his replaceable existence does too. Ahjumma is beautiful in that eternal and timeless way resembling old actresses one sees in black and white television, the type of person who has always been beautiful and lovely from the first breath they take. She is wealthy in beauty and money, character, and grace like a woman who is too good for this wretched ugly world._

_He does not know where he stands with Ahjumma. He used to think she only tolerated him because of Ahjussi but that was proven wrong when he ran a fever so high, she stayed by his side for 3 days and 2 nights, to feed him porridge and to make sure he was comfortable. That had been few years ago and it was the only time she had not hold him from a careful distance._

_He wonders what she is afraid of. Is it him or the threat of what he can be? Is it a matter of inheritance or his background? In this expensive restaurant, somewhere 50 floors above the ground with the lights of Seoul shining upon them, he begins to reevaluate his relationship with the woman in front of him, dissecting it like a science project._

_“I’m sorry. I had my secretary look into it. I hope you’ll forgive me for being nosy.”_

_Regardless of whatever reservations she had about him, Ahjumma’s eyes have always been kind. It’s the apologetic note in her voice that gets him as if he hadn’t been planning an elopement with her only son.  
_

_The fact that they’ve been exposed doesn’t surprise him. It hadn’t been a matter of if but when. Nothing passes Ahjumma. He had only hoped they could’ve bought enough time before flying off to Canada. He is strangely embarrassed._

_“You don’t have to say anything. You don’t owe me an explanation either. I just want you to spare Ahjumma a few moments.”_

_She smiles, so gentle and knowing, and even if she hadn’t treated him like her own, he knows he owes her a lifetime of debt for all that she has done for him._

_“I’m dying. I won’t go into details but I probably won’t make it pass Minhyung’s 30th. No one knows.”_

_She whispers the words like a secret and for a long time, it hangs in the air. He does not know what to say. He feels like he’s forgotten how words worked and when she takes his hand into hers, he begins to cry like the crybaby Minhyung has always told him he is. It’s a quiet kind of a crying that is void of sound. A slow and silent faucet of tears. The lights of Seoul suddenly do not look so beautiful anymore and like this, he can finally see the wrinkles on Ahjumma’s face, tired and jaded and aged._

_“When you first came to me, you were so tiny. Much smaller than Minhyung when he was born. You were so small and delicate I wanted to hide you away. I fought with Ahjussi the day he brought you home. I didn’t want him to bring someone as soft as you into our terrible world.”_

_A pregnant pause as if she’s choosing the right words._

_“You’ve been with us for 17 years now. You, who did not ask to be pulled into this society, knows better than anyone else how evil and wicked people can be. Your father and Ahjussi’s death…it hadn’t been an accident.”_

_He feels like he is underwater. Ahjumma’s words are muffled. He can’t breathe. And all around him is the pressure of an entire ocean pressing down on him. Something crawls its way up to his chest, through the cartilages of his trachea and he holds it behind his throat._

_“I wish I can protect you, Donghyuck. I wish Minhyung can protect you too. But I can’t. Minhyung cannot either. The company’s dying. And I wish I can tell you that I’m willing to throw it all away but that is not a decision I can make. When you climb to the top on the heads of the people you've stepped, you become responsible for their livelihood.”_

_He’s shaking hard enough his vision begins to become a merge of colors. Ahjumma moves her seat to the space next to him. She holds him in her arms and he holds back though he isn’t sure who is holding onto who. He’s afraid they’ll both break if any one of them lets go._

_“I am just one woman. And Minhyung is only 20. We cannot let the company go without a fight. Your father and Ahjussi’s death would be in vain. The tears you’ve shed and the childhood you were robbed of would all be in vain. Minhyung cannot protect you without power. To climb to the top, he needs someone who can be his ladder.”_

_Somewhere below, Seoul’s night traffic continues unaware of the world breaking above. Below them, life continues._

_“I know my son. You are precious to him. If anything were to happen to you or the child, he will not hesitate to bring down the world with him just to keep you safe. He cannot be the person he is meant to be with that attitude. I wouldn’t want you to raise a child in this kind of environment either. The three of you cannot survive by being together. Break the cycle, Donghyuck-ah. Let my son go. Go to a place far from this hell hole. Raise the child in a place where the air is good and the people are kind. Find a man who can love and protect you the way Minhyung cannot. Save my son. Save my grandson. And save yourself.”_

_He is 17 and nothing in the world makes sense. He’s realized the world has betrayed him once more and whoever is making the decisions up there will never be on his side. It doesn’t matter what he does or what he says, the world will always be against him like he exists to hold all the sadness in the world so that everyone else can be happy._

* * *

It is summer again. Since Minhyuck’s birth, it feels like it has always been summer. Lee Minhyuck is 1 year and 2 weeks old. Like his Dol, the villagers had not spared any reservation in throwing the biggest birthday celebration for Minhyuck who has become Sunshine Town’s little celebrity. Jaemin does not come but he has a mini toy Lamborghini delivered to his doorsteps on the morning of and he begins to suspect he will have to look up some parent-teaching classes online to make sure Minhyuck is not spoiled rotten. 

The coffee shop is unusually busy today with the sudden influx of tourists. He’s been running back and forth between the counter and the tables with Minhyuck strapped to his back like he is Captain America. Call him Captain Baby.

Even though it is nearing the evening, the august sun has hardly set in the distance and the summer heat beats down on them relentlessly. He feels like he is being cooked alive. When the last customer leaves, he locks the door, makes himself a glass of lemon tea, throws himself into the nearest seat. He sips on the iced drink, watches in contentment as Minhyuck rolls back and forth on the baby walker Yukhei had bought for him.

The tea is cool against his throat. There is a smile on Minhyuck’s face as he dangles his little feet off the ground before tippy-toeing to a different corner of the café. This is happiness, he thinks. And this is serenity. 

He finishes the drink in record time, brings it to the sink to wash. Behind him, the T.V. is playing the news and he hears the click and clacks of the walker as it bumps gently on the edges of the wall. When he finishes, he goes to turn the T.V. off. Lee Minhyung’s face appears on the screen and the remote slips from his grasp. It breaks into its parted pieces, the battery popping from the remote, rolling to the edge of the door. He thinks Minhyuck is crying from the sudden noise but he is too stupefied from the image on the screen to register the sound. 

This is the first time he has lay eyes on Minhyung since that cold December day. It has been a year and a half now. He has cut his hair. It’s styled short and black, different from the messy dark brown it had been. He’s lost weight. Minhyung has always had sharp bone structures but it’s gotten even more defined in the past year. He wonders if he’s gotten taller too. Is that even possible? He had thought they were both done with their growth spurt when they parted. He frowns.

‘Parted’ isn’t the right word. It would imply it had been a mutual decision. His mind helpfully supplies the word, ‘abandoned’ and a sense of sadness he hasn’t felt in a long time returns. In a fitted black suit with expensive leather shoes, Minhyung seems much older. This is the 22-year-old Lee Minhyung. The Lee Minhyung he will never get to know.

He’s holding hands with a beautiful woman and it takes him a moment to recognize it is Eunji. His relationship with Ko Eunji has always been defined by playful rivalry. She is beautiful in ways different from him—soft, ancient, traditional. In many ways, she reminds him of Ahjumma in that old movie star type of way. Eunji had been the only girl in their group and even though she is the oldest, it had only been natural for the boys to be protective of her, Minhyung included. Her affection for Minhyung had not been a secret. He muses over the days where they would fight for Minhyung’s attention and smiles bitterly. Those days seem so far away now. He doesn’t dare touch the memories fearing it will all disintegrate if he grasps it in his hands. 

They are both wearing shy smiles even with the cameras flashing in their faces. He reads the title underneath their figures, slow and steady so that his heart can bear the weights of the words: **Lee Minhyung (22) of Lee Conglomerate announces his engagement with K Group’s young mistress, Ko Eunji (22).** The rest is a blur though there is nothing wrong with the television. Heavy weight knocks into his knees and he falls. The entire world rests on his hunched back. He presses the edge of his palm into his eyes until he sees stars. 

Behind, something falls, startles him from his stupor. He scrambles to his legs, runs to where Minhyuck’s walker has capsized into the floor in his attempt to crawl out of the space. The walker has trapped Minhyuck’s tiny body in between its plastic crutches and the cold ground and he screams with all the power in his tiny lungs.

The sound rips a hole in his tired, bruised heart. He pushes the walker off of Minhyuck, holds him like he can disappear at any time. He’s bleeding from the corner of his brows that will surely scar after it heals.

He is 19 and he feels like he is the biggest disappointment in the entire world. He feels like he has failed as a lover, as a father, and as a decent human being. Minhyuck’s high pitched scream pierces the dark room and he cries with him. He sits there on the dirty floor for a long time with Minhyuck in his arms. In the background, the television becomes static. 

* * *

He is 24 and Minhyuck is 6. It is his first day of 1st grade and he is terrified. 1st grade is different from kindergarten. At 6, kids are bigger, crueler and smarter. They can say things they don’t mean and do things without thinking of it twice and all he wants to do is bundle Minhyuck up so that he can hide him from the rest of the world. 

“Appa, let me go! I’m going to be late!” 

He brushes the bangs away from Minhyuck’s forehead. His fingers linger at the tiny and barely visible scar just above his brows. That had been years ago. Looking at Minhyuck makes him sad. With each passing year, his facial features and limbs continue to fall into their respective places, turning him into a clone of his other father.

Lee Minhyuck is a constant reminder of the person he does not have the strength to face nor the courage to be with. There has never been a time Minhyuck has not made him happy but there has also never been a time that he has not made him sad either. Minhyuck growing and he should be happy but all he wants is to return to those days where Minhyuck had babble and crawl his way through his heart. 

“I know, love. Can you give Appa a kiss before you go?”

Minhyuck makes a face. He pushes one sticky hand against his cheek before scrambling away like a little bunny. 

“No. That’s embarrassing. I’m a big boy now.”

He pretends the burning feeling behind his eyes is only because of allergies even though it is only the beginning of March. He stomps his foot childishly. 

“I don’t like you, Lee Minhyuck,” he says.

Minhyuck rolls his eyes stomping his little feet back to him. He wraps his arms as best as he can around his shoulder and says, “You are like a baby, Appa.” 

He can’t help but agreed. Sometimes it’s hard to tell who is taking care of who. He lets Minhyuck go and watches the yellow backpack bounce up and down against his back as he runs to the teacher waiting by the door. March is here again and he wonders where the days have gone. 

* * *

As the end of the first semester approaches, Minhyuck becomes increasingly quiet. In front of him, he is an open book and it doesn’t take much for him to coax the truth out of him. 

“Everyone’s going away for summer vacation and I have to stay in this stupid village.”

The confession strikes hard at his chest for being an adult is hard but being a single parent adult is even harder, and he finds these sentiments can only intensify his reluctance to take Minhyuck out of Sunshine Town. He's come to terms that money and time has never been the issue but even if Halmeoni has now given him the coffee shop to move back to Seoul to be with her family, even with employees of his own, he's discovered that his hesitance stems from somewhere deeper.

“Minhyuck-ah…don't say that. All the uncles and aunties in this town cherish you a lot.”

“They can cherish me too even if we’re on vacation.”

“Lee Minhyuck.”

“Appa, do you even care about Minhyuck? All you care about is the stupid shop!”

The dramatic words sound almost ridiculous coming from his little body, no doubt, a result of all the makjang dramas Mrs. Wong is always watching when she is babysitting. And even if he knows Minhyuck has perfected the art of crocodile tears, he finds his resolve breaking. He is looking at him with Minhyung's eyes and he has always been weak when it came to Lee Minhyung. He laments the unfairness of the world. He wipes Minhyuck's rose-red cheeks and he says, “Fine. Where does my baby want to go? But I’m telling you now, Appa isn’t made of gold so choose wisely.” 

The tears stop. Minhyuck smiles with his teeth and he says, “You can ask Jaemin Samchon. He has money. Or Jeno Samchon. He has even more money than Jaemin Samchon. He told me so.”

“If you’re going to act like this, the only trip you’ll be taking is the trip to the grocery store.”

The smile slips. Minhyuck grabs his hands, his little fingers making indents on his skin, and he shouts, "Seoul! I want to go to Seoul, Appa!"

* * *

The misconception with Seoul is that people came to be happy. They say that the secret to happiness is to eat well, sleep well, and love well. If that is the case, Seoul would be a happier place. No one came to Seoul to be happy. Everyone came to forget.

Seoul, with its shining lights, bustling excitement, buildings that ripped the sky in pieces, is a wretched place for the wretched people. It’s easy to be fool by Seoul. He used to think Seoul was a wonderful place with wonderful people who knew all the secrets to the world and the secret to happiness but really, there were no secrets.

The only thing he’s learned is the volatility and frivolity of people. He hates Seoul and everything it stands for. And still, 6 years later, he finds himself standing at Seoul Station with Minhyuck in his hand with the rest of the world rushing by them. 

It’s been so long since he’s been inside a city he feels a little sick. It's strange to think at one point in his life, he had been part of the crowd running by as if they were constantly out of time. The noise, the chaos—it overwhelms him. Minhyuck who is next to him has stars in his eyes. He’s fascinated by everyone and everything. What is that store? What is that building? Who is that person? It makes him warm and melancholy. All this time, had he starved Minhyuck?

He holds onto Minhyuck like he is holding onto a suitcase of gold. Somewhere along the way, Minhyuck slips from his grasp. He runs to the large exit, eager to see the real Seoul in person. He chases him, dodging bodies with the finesse of a starter player.

Minhyuck is fast even with his little legs. He struggles to catch up with their luggage and the crowd in the way. For a second, he loses sight of Minhyuck’s jet black hair and blue t-shirt. He panics until he spots him again, standing by the edge of the road next to an expensive-looking car. He’s yelling, waving his hands but he can only focus on the person next to Minhyuck. 

“It’s been a long time, Donghyuck-ah.”

* * *

They’re in a private room in one of those luxurious restaurants he used to eat at twice a week. Minhyuck has his face pressed against the glass, the afternoon traffic of Seoul mirroring his eyes. He’s fearless, disregarding the height they’re at, instead counting the cars passing by under his breath.

There’s whipped cream smudged at the corner of his mouth from the cake he had earlier. He wants to wipe it away but he has given all his attention to Ahjumma who is sitting in front of him. It’s only been 6 years but it feels like she has aged 60 years. He can hardly recognize the woman in front of him.

Her head is wrapped in an extravagant looking scarf, her nails painted a blood red but her face is ashen gray and he can see the cracks on her lips even underneath the matte lipstick she wears. 

“He’s so precious, Donghyuck-ah. What a wonderful thing you and Minhyung have made.”

The words make him angry but the fight has left him 6 years ago in that restaurant above Seoul’s nightlife. Instead, he accepts the comment for what it is and gives Ahjumma a sad smile. 

“Thank you.”

He can tell the words fall on deaf ears. There are stars in Ahjumma’s eyes. She can’t take her eyes away from Minhyuck. It must be strange to see her son so young again, he thinks. They don’t talk about Minhyung nor the fact that she’s been keeping tabs on him. They don’t talk about the past or the company or the fact that she’s sick. They don’t talk about the accident either. When faced with a dying human being, it is only right to treat them with kindness and dignity. There’s no point in fighting. None of that matters anymore. 

He calls Minhyuck over and he runs into his open arms, tripping twice on his way back. He’s grinning, all teeth and gums and there is an empty spot where his canine is growing in but he is adorable all the same. He wipes the smudge from Minhyuck’s mouth, directs his attention to Ahjumma who has never once taken her eyes off the pair. 

“This is your Halmeoni. Why don’t you say your greetings?” 

Minhyuck nods, a soldier on a mission, he places the palms of his hand on his belly button, bows 90 degrees. He shouts, ‘Halmeoni,’ and his voice circles the air before it falls. Ahjumma laughs loud, clear, and it is the first time he has seen her so careless and carefree. 

Ahjumma pulls him into her arms and she keeps him there for a long, long time. 

* * *

They’re on a train to Gimpo Airport, early in the morning. A still sleeping Seoul passes by them in blurs of color. Minhyuck rests his head on his lap. He’s curled up on the cushion seats like a kitten but his eyes are wide open. He’s staring at the ceiling and he’s thinking. Then he says, “Appa?”

He hums to show he is paying attention though his eyes are trained on the mountains over the horizon.

“Seoul was fun, wasn’t it?”

He cards his hand through Minhyuck’s long hair, makes a note to cut it when they return. 

“I’m glad you had fun, Minhyuck-ah.”

Minhyuck pushes himself up and instead links his fingers with his like he used to do when he had been younger and tinier. 

“Seoul was fun but Sunshine Town is home.” 

He says it nonchalantly like he is explaining a simple fact. He wonders where the days have gone and when his son has grown up. He thinks of the days where he had ate and slept alone. He thinks of Lemon and all the violent nights he had put him through. Behind his eyes, there is an image of a baby wrapped in a blue blanket, so small he barely fills the space of his arms. He squeezes the tiny hands, scarcely filling in his palm. Someday, these hands will be bigger than his, he thinks. 

“Yeah. Let’s go home, Minhyuck-ah.”


	5. Chapter 5

_It is sometime after midnight and Donghyuck is sleeping, tucked into his white comforters so that no part of his body will be expose to the cold. He’s dreaming. He cannot be sure of where he is but he sees a cliff and above him, there is a large hole that stretches across temperate air, and so, he stares at this hole, feeling as if the void is inhaling his insides until all that is left is his flesh, left to dry like a preserved fish. He jolts awake._

_Minhyung has snuck into his room again. He’s smiling, just the barest stretch of his lips, and he is handsome even under the dimmed lights, and it is then, that he knows there is nothing he will not do for Lee Minhyung.  
_

_There is nothing he will not give, nothing he will not say._

_“Wake up, Lee Donghyuck.”_

_He blindly reaches his arms out and once having found Minhyung’s neck, he pulls him into an embrace so that their cheeks are pressed against each other like there are magnets inside their bones, then he lets out a breath like the universe has right itself._

_“Hey, sleepyhead.”_

_He runs his hands through Minhyung’s hair. His nails drag against his scalp in a linear motion._

_“If you don’t wake up soon, we’ll miss our flight,” Minhyung whispers into his ear and he shivers against Minhyung’s body separated by the thick material of his sheets._ _His fingers have moved onto the back of Minhyung’s neck. He massages the tight muscles and mumbles, “Where are we going?”_

_“To New York.”_

_“It’s 2 AM Hyung.”_

_“So?”_

_“Why?”_

_“Just because.”_

_Minhyung pushes himself up, tugs his body with him. He’s wearing nothing but a thin white t-shirt so he lets Minhyung manhandle him into a black hoodie and matching sweatpants. He’s still half asleep even as Minhyung leads him pass the hallway, down the stairs, through the sitting room, and finally the entrance where his new car is parked._

_It’s obnoxiously showy with a sleek finishing, a low top, and doors that open upwards instead of sideways and it’s the exact type of car Minhyung would buy to say fuck you to the rest of the world. He sleeps on the way to the airport. An English song plays in the background so soft he can hardly hear it over the sound of the rain. He holds Minhyung’s right hand in his lap like a kid would hold onto a stuffed animal._

_At the airport, they hastily make it through security. They board with no luggage aside from the passport in their hands and Minhyung’s wallet in his pocket and soon, they are taking off, climbing the dark sky until the shape of Seoul falls further and further away._

_He climbs into Minhyung’s bed even though he has his own. He falls asleep in the space between Minhyung’s shoulder and neck, body curled against Minhyung’s like molded clay. Hours later, New York City’s concrete jungle grows within his vision and he imagines touching the tips of buildings._ _The other side of the world is dark, entering the beginning of dawn._

_They go through immigration and Minhyung drags him into an Uber. On the way to the hotel, Minhyung chats with the driver in quick English like reunited old friends. He pretends to look at the passing scenery but he’s been to New York enough times to not care._

_Instead, he’s focused on Minhyung’s voice and the cadence of his words, the lilt of his sentences, and the timbre of his tone as he speaks. Whether he speaks in Korean or English, Lee Minhyung has always been a confident person, always 5 sentences ahead of the conversation, and anticipating your next words._

_It’s an inauthentic way of conversing. With him though, Minhyung sheds the mask, to which he welcomes wholeheartedly. He doesn’t want to be another person to Minhyung. When he’s talking to Minhyung he wants him to listen, to really listen and to understand that when he’s talking about 1, he really means 2, and when he’s talking about 2, he really means 3. When you’re talking to a person you should focus on their words, the precious sentences they form, the sound of their voice, the moment that is being shared. Conversations should not be competitions, he thinks._

_They pull into Brooklyn just as the sun is midway to its stage. The hotel Minhyung has booked sits on the northwestern part of the borough with a view of the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s not a particularly tall hotel standing at a height he would be comfortable jumping from if there is ever an emergency. While Minhyung orders room service, he takes a shower, and when Minhyung has cleaned up too, they eat breakfast on the balcony, watch as New York City awakes from its slumber like a fearsome dragon in the storybooks they used to read._

_The wide balcony is enclosed in glass to protect them from the November wind and when he breathes on the glass it fogs into an obscure pattern from the heat in the room. He doesn’t know why they are thousands of miles away from home and he’s not sure if anyone knows where they are but he knows the warmth of Minhyung’s chest and the way he takes long slow breaths on his neck and there is nothing else he needs to know._

_It’s obvious from the way Minhyung looks when he comes home after a long day of attending classes and shadowing people and conversations he doesn’t care for and he’s only 20 but he wants to care for him like he is 2._

_He wishes Lee Minhyung isn’t Lee Minhyung so that he can do the things he wants to do and be with the people he likes but he also understands how important his legacy is for him and before Lee Donghyuck is a lover, he is a friend and before he is a friend, he is Lee Minhyung’s so he stands wordlessly by his side and when night comes and Minhyung returns to his arms, he holds back his tears to wipe Minhyung’s and he prays the world can be kinder to the man he treasures._

_They’re drunk on good wine and an expensive view with the autumn sun glaring through the frosted glass and Minhyung kisses him like he is born to love him and he receives like a parched man in the middle of the desert. They fuck against the windows and the whole world can be watching but he is too far gone in a place only Minhyung can bring him too._

_“Let’s make a baby, Lee Donghyuck,” he hears. It’s hard to tell if the words are coming from above or behind, though intoxicated by_ _Minhyung’s touch, mouth, and affection, he finds there is nothing he would not give to Lee Minhyung so he nods shyly, face flushed red, body bruised purple, and he understands then, everything he has done and everything he will do, his integrity, his shame, it has all been and will be for_ _Lee Minhyung._

* * *

Jeju-do’s autumns aren’t particularly cold but the sun sets much earlier than it does in the summer. Evening arrives a little after 5:00 and Minhyuck is gnawing on an abused stuffed bunny. His saliva drips down his chin soaking his bib in a dark orange patch.

He lets him be and he goes to reheat last night’s dinner. He alternates between feeding Minhyuck and feeding himself and when he’s done he gives him a quick bath. Once Minhyuck is in his crib, he turns on the baby mobile. The mini hanging stars dance in a circular motion above him and soon he finds himself falling asleep with Minhyuck whose eyes are half-lidded. 

He closes his eyes for a moment, recounts his day, then forces himself awake to finish the dishes. The baby mobile has stopped a while ago and the apartment is quiet except for the running faucet and the occasional bike passing by. When he’s done, he downs half a bottle of soju then he sits by the kitchen table with his head in his arms.

He’s tired and his feet ache from standing the entire day and he can’t believe he’s become one of those parents who spend their Friday evenings drinking their stress and sorrow away. He reaches for his phone even though his mind is screaming in protest and he swipes past the hundreds of warning messages from Jaemin to tap on the little play button. 

Minhyung’s aristocratic features appear in his vision. He touches the screen. He’s trembling. His heart is running a marathon against his rib cage and he’s afraid it might just burst from his chest and rupture his lungs and when he looks down there will be an empty hole where his heart used to be. 

He’s never been the type to wonder about hypothetical situations and what-ifs and maybes and things that held no meaning. But in this old apartment, in this tiny kitchen where the only light is from the small phone screen broadcasting the beautiful ceremony in front of him, he begins to wonder what it would be like to stand next to Minhyung the way Eunji can. To stay by his side and have the approval of the world they come from.

He reckons there is a kind of sorrow that is more than heartache. It’s a kind of sadness that accompanies every breath he takes in everything he does. A kind of grief that makes it difficult to say a name from the past or to recall a precious memory that has been etched into his mind. This sort of sorrow isn’t something that can be abandoned or forgiven or forgotten and it lingers in the air, on his skin, on his clothes, in his eyes, until he is left yearning but there is nothing left for him to hold onto except for memories that have started to wither in his mind. 

Minhyuck stirs in his crib and he bites into his thumb to curb the pathetic sounds he's making. He plays and replays the video until he passes from exhaustion. When he wakes in the morning, he washes the dried blood from his nail and the crevices of his palm. He feeds Minhyuck.

Together, they leave for work. 

* * *

**Ko Eunji (23) of K Group Announces Pregnancy**

**Lee Minhyung (23) and Ko Eunji (23) Spotted Shopping for Baby Clothes**

**Lee Minhyung (23) Accompanies Wife, Ko Eunji (23) to the Doctor’s**

**A New Era:**

**Lee Minhyung (23) of Lee Conglomerate and Ko Eunji (23) of K Group Welcomes a Baby Boy**

He is 20 and Minhyuck is 1 year and 9 months old when he lets Lee Minhyung go. 

* * *

Lee Minhyuck is 8. He is in the third grade and has discovered that some people in the world have never been told to shut up before. Park Kyungjoon is a piece of shit, he thinks. A conniving little piece of shit who only knows how to run his mouth when no one has asked for his opinion. Appa is always telling him to have pretty thoughts and pretty words so that he will grow up well but Park Kyungjoon and his big mouth are making it hard for him to grow in the way Appa wants him to. 

“Everyone knows you’re adopted, Lee Minhyuck. You don’t even look like your Appa.”

It’s the end of the day. They’re out in the nearby park, facing each other as if they are hosting a gun showdown. There’s a crowd around them. He feels like he is a monkey at a circus. Park Kyungjoon is a good head taller than him but he is faster. He thinks he can take him on if he tries. 

“Go back to whatever hole you crawled out from, Lee Minhyuck.’ 

Kyungjoon smiles. He looks both irritated and constipated. It grates his nerves. His fingers twitch to _do something_. He doesn’t know where the anger comes from. Appa has never been the violent type. He’s scared of bugs and butterflies and has always learned to convey his disappointment through words instead of anger.

Minhyuck is different. Sometimes it feels like there is a fire inside of him and the only way to put it out is to channel the flames into actions. He wonders if this is what the uncles and aunties called early puberty. He wants to fight everyone and everything so that they can stop making speculations about his birth. 

“Go to hell, Park Kyungjoon.” 

His fist connects with Kyungjoon’s face before he registers it moving. At 8, Lee Minhyuck learns that when you punch someone, they will punch back. 

* * *

Minhyuck takes the long way home. Instead of taking the direct path from the park to the coffee shop, he takes a detour around the block to the bibimbap restaurant near the cliff that Appa likes to go to on Sundays.

The kind noona there takes one look at his face and wordlessly brings him an ice pack from the kitchen. Noona doesn’t question the state of his face and when she brings him lunch with extra meat, he scarfs it down shamelessly. He gives her a big hug when he leaves and begins the trek home. He feels like he is walking to his grave. 

He says a quick prayer in his head and enters the coffee shop. By the counter, Appa is teaching Jisung Hyung how to work the coffee machine. He takes advantage of his distraction to run upstairs. Appa calls after him but he pretends not to hear. He hides underneath his covers and stays there until the sun has set and his room is darker than Jeju-do in the winter. Fatigue takes him away. 

He wakes to Appa crying. Lee Minhyuck wants to cry too. Appa scrambles to find the spare ice pack in the freezer. His left cheek and right eye are as swollen as the time he’d been stung by a bee, the ice pack from Bibimbap Noona doing the bare minimum, and he knows by the time the sun has risen tomorrow morning, they will have bloom into purple and blue patches like the hydrangea fields in the summer. 

Appa waits for him to talk but he keeps his mouth shut. Lee Minhyuck does not keep secrets from Appa. There has never been a reason to. But something in him thinks voicing the events aloud will hurt Appa more than Kyungjoon’s punches hurt him. So, he ignores Appa’s begging and coaxing and pretends he is too tired to talk. They eat dinner in silence and watch the news in silence and when night comes, Appa does not tell him goodnight. Sometimes, Appa is like a kid.

At night, he lays in bed and ruminates Kyungjoon’s words. Think pretty thoughts, think pretty thoughts, he repeats like a mantra but behind his eyelids, he sees the indents on Kyungjoon's face from where his fist had connected. 

It's not the words that bother him. But at 8, pride has made a home in his heart. It’s not enough that he knows the words are lies. He wants everyone to know Lee Minhyuck isn’t someone they can speak carelessly to. 

A "normal” family has never been something he coveted. You can’t miss what you’ve never had and you can't want something you don't understand. He doesn’t need two people babying him. He’s 8. If he desires, he can probably start working. Besides, when he starts earning his own money, he doesn’t want to split it between two people either. He’s promised himself everything he will make will be given to Appa so that they can take a trip together further than Seoul. Appa’s probably never been out of Korea before, he thinks solemnly. Minhyuck will change that. 

Anyway, he’s got Jaemin and Jeno Samchon. He also has Yukhei Samchon and Wong Ahjussi and Ahjumma and Bibimbap Noona, and all the uncles and aunties in Sunshine Town who loves him. There is also a Halmeoni in Seoul he vaguely recalls from two summers ago but that has become a distant memory. 

Appa is enough. Minhyuck is enough.

Their little family is enough. There’s no room for more. 

* * *

Minhyuck is 9. Seoul is still as fascinating as he found it at 6. He’s on a two day and one-night class trip. Appa is blowing up his KaKaoTalk with 20 texts per minute. He thinks if there is ever an Olympics for fastest typing in the world, Appa would win gold. He sends a random emoji in response to all the unresponded messages before silencing it, pocketing the phone into his jacket. 

Winter in Seoul is different from summer in Seoul and different from winter in Jeju-do. During the summer, life fills the streets and it is like summer will always be there until the end of time. In winter, there is still life but it’s a stagnant and slow sort of movement. There is snow too but it’s dirty and grey, mixed with all the pollution in the air. In Jeju-do, you can walk for hours and the snow around will remain white and untouched until you realize the only footsteps on the ground are yours. Still, he reckons there is a certain kind of beauty in dirty Seoul. 

The trip is sponsor by some fancy company that is related to someone in Jeju-do’s government who is apparently a close friend of Sunshine Town’s mayor who arranges for them to stay at The Shilla which is bigger and fancier than any building in the village.

He waits until Yoon Sanha is knocked out before he sneaks out of the hotel room to go exploring. It’s not that he doesn’t like Sanha but he is the last person he will take on a secret mission. Park Seonsaengnim is on watch duty and he waits until he has turned into the corner before he runs for the stairs at the end of the hallway. 

He takes the stairs down two flights. From there, he takes the elevator down to random floors. He finds an enclosed pool on the 19th floor. It faces the Hangang. Seoul's evening skyline greets him radiantly. It is empty so he walks along the edges. He takes pictures. Appa will probably want to see it. 

There is a spa on the 16th floor. He risks heat stroke inside the salt room until an employee hyung eyes him with suspicion. He leaves for the 3rd floor gym where he almost breaks his toes with two 10lb dumbbells. He takes the stairs down to the lobby. The lobby is the grandest part of the hotel—all expensive mahogany wood and brilliant crystals teetering from the high ceiling and when the light refracts from an angle, it is like snow has been suspended in the air. 

He follows the noise to a grand ballroom, the sound crescendoing to what appears to be a party hosting people in fitted suits and colorful dresses holding fancy cups with sparkling drinks. Chamber music dances into the air, the notes dying with the birth of the next in a continuous stage of birth and rebirth. He reads the banner hung in the middle of the stage: **Lee Conglomerate’s 120th Anniversary.**

A minute of snooping tells him the adults in the room are different from the adults he knows. Their forced smiles as if someone is holding a gun to their head makes his stomach churn. They talk funny too. He feels out of his element. He also feels underdressed in his white hoodie, sweatpants, and beat-up sneakers that exposes the small hole on the side when he walks in a certain way. Appa had bought him new ones just before he left, but he has found he is a person who easily develops sentimental feelings for his belongings. He moves to leave, turning to the exit when his world turns with him into the opposite direction of his feet until he is staring into startlingly eager eyes

“Hi.” 


	6. Chapter 6

_It is the last day of summer and it is the end of the world. The heat has come and pass. Loneliness ambushes Donghyuck in the empty mansion. Even though there is still one more day until autumn crawls in with its cold winds and early evenings, it feels as if summer never came. The pool has been drained and the greens have already left the oaks in a premature transformation._

_When he goes out, he sees people in turtle necks and thick sweaters and he wonders where summer has gone and why it has left him early. Nowadays, it feels like everyone has abandoned him. Jaemin is in Switzerland to accompany his parents at a conference; Jeno has been enrolled in some rich-kid-camp in the south; Eunji has been busy with classes at SNU; and Lee Minhyung has forgotten his entire existence._

_It's been 7 months since Minhyung left for college in Canada following his graduation in February. March turns into April and April falls into May, then June, then July, then August, and finally September and it hasn’t even been a whole year yet but it feels as if Lee Minhyung has been gone for a lifetime and a half. Ahjumma is in New York settling some things for one of the company’s subsidiaries and even with all the help in the mansion, home these days is a quiet and lonely place._

_It is the late afternoon. He is sitting by the edge of the drained pool, tracing the grey and white marbles beneath him, cut into mismatching shapes, and glued in diverging patterns, and he sighs with all the breath he has in his lungs. It’s midday. He slumps into the ground and crosses his arms behind his head and when he realizes it doesn’t hurt to look at the sun, he finally accepts the end of summer and that the absence of Minhyung will continue until he comes back for Christmas break._

_Thinking of Minhyung makes him hot. It starts with his fingers, then his toes, then the small crevices in his body. Thinking of Minhyung brings back summer. He finds himself in a vicious cycle. To alleviate the loneliness brought by his absence, he thinks of Minhyung which makes him think of the absence. He has become a snake chasing its own tail._

_He spends his days with all sorts of little distractions. He goes to school wearing Minhyung’s clothes, requests the chef to make Minhyung’s favorite meals, and at night, he sleeps in Minhyung's room so that it feels like he's never left._

_For his birthday, Jaemin threw him something called a 'Sweet 16,' which he had seen from an American movie. Despite the effort, with all the expensive food and all the expensive entertainment, he’d locked himself in the bathroom 15 minutes in, until he’d cried himself raw._

_For Minhyung’s birthday, he’d stayed up the entire night video calling him until Minhyung had been pulled away by his new friends to whatever they have had planned for him. That night, he_ _had been two seconds away from booking a direct flight to Vancouver just so Minhyung could see his tears in person._

_He tries not to think of Minhyung but the more he tries, the harder it becomes until even the clouds begin to form the shape of Minhyung’s eyes. He feels pathetic and he doesn’t want to go back in where he will only mope and cry in Minhyung’s bed so he sits there until the porch lights flicker on and the late September breeze becomes unbearable._

_He goes in and has dinner alone and he watches the latest episode of the Friday drama alone and after he showers and throws on Minhyung’s sweater, he climbs to the roof where he waits for the fireworks that will conclude the end of summer and commence the beginning of autumn._

_He’s never missed it with Minhyung just like he’s never been apart from Minhyung for more than 24 hours but he feels upset enough this year to want to go to bed early just so the next day will come and it will be one day closer until he sees Minhyung again._

_Shortly before midnight, he, all alone on the roof, comes to the realization that there is nothing more awful than liking a person. He used to think that liking a person was a wonderful thing. It can make you feel like you can climb mountains and soar skies and endure all torments but he’s starting to think he has made a grave mistake. Liking a person is the worst thing he has done. It could not even make him happy. All he is is sad and empty._

_“Lee Donghyuck, is that my sweater?”_

_The familiar voice jars him from his melancholy. He turns. Lee Minhyung stands in front of him with his messy hair and handsome jawline, as real as the September night. The wind breathes cold on his wet cheeks. Minhyung touches him like he is made of glass._

_“Why are you always crying when you see me, Donghyuck-ah? Do you hate Hyung that much?”_

_He ignores the teasing to bury his face in the crook of Minhyung’s neck, then he takes the deepest breath he can muster so that Lee Minhyung becomes the only thing he knows._

_“Aren’t you going to ask why I’m home early?”_

_He shakes his head and the stray strands of his hair brush against Minhyung’s cheeks. It doesn’t matter why Minhyung is home early. What is the point of asking when the most important thing is that he is home at all?_

_Above them, the sky explodes with the power of two stars colliding and a burst of vivid red detonates into the air. Orange, blue, purple, red again, and again and again like a broken tape and they echo from his eyes to Minhyung’s and even as it starts to slow, they can still see the flashes of light behind their lids when they close their eyes. The entire world stops to mourn for the end of summer._

_They sit there for a long time even after the universe learns to breathe again and the fireworks have become memories now but the sound of their deaths continues to resonate in the September sky. Minhyung is holding his hand and he reevaluates that liking a person is something that cannot be bad or good—it just happens._

_“Be mine, Lee Donghyuck.”_

_Beautiful Lee Minhyung, handsome Lee Minhyung, Lee Minhyung who he yearns for, Lee Minhyung who he cares for, Lee Minhyung who he thinks of, Lee Minhyung who he misses, Lee Minhyung who he cannot forget, Lee Minhyung who he cannot let go of, Lee Minhyung who he likes—it is the end of summer and it is the end of the world but for Lee Donghyuck, it is only the beginning._

* * *

The boy in front of him is dressed as pretentiously as the adults in the room—a full ensemble that itches Minhyuck’s throat when he sees the constricting blazer with a dressed shirt that is buttoned all the way. He sees the pair of shiny leather shoes and his toe squirms uncomfortably in his sneakers. He has half of his body inside the room and the other half clutching the edge of the doorway and when he looks down at the hands clutching onto his with the tenacity of someone who has never been told ‘no’ before, an irritation that begins from the tips of his toes to the top of his head consumes him. 

He tugs his hand back and tries not to feel bad when the boy’s expression falls from excitement to crestfallen. They stand in front of each other in heavy silence waiting for the other to make the first move. When the silence stretches on and some of the adults begin to give them strange looks, he leaves the room to head in the direction of the elevators until he realizes the boy has followed him out. He fastens his pace. Behind him, the boy begins to run.

It becomes a chase. By the time he is on his 6th turn and he finds the boy is still on his tail, he begins to wonder if he had stuck a tracking device to him when he hadn’t been paying attention. Somewhere between the 7th and 8th hallway, the boy trips, falling into the carpeted floor, and even though there is not a scratch on his pretty pale face, he begins to cry with the strength of a newborn.

He looks to the ceiling. Then, he looks between the boy and the open elevator. The boy’s cries have evolved from loud to outright hollering. He curses under his breath. He runs to the boy and hopes this will someday contribute to his good karma points. 

“Stop. Look, you’re fine. No blood, see?”

It is the wrong thing to say. The boy’s hollering rolls into a pterodactyl howl. Minhyuck winces. He wonders if this is the world punishing him for punching Park Kyungjoon in the face. Think pretty thoughts, think pretty thoughts. He looks around the empty hall. He begins to contemplate if it would be acceptable to stuff his phone into the boy’s mouth to shut him up when he spots the café near the lobby. He reaches into his pocket, pass his phone, and pulls out a fiver. Think pretty thoughts, he repeats. 

* * *

The boy is Lee Minwoo. He is 7 and a half but he is small enough to pass as 5. He has no brothers and sisters and the party they had left behind is thrown by his family. His favorite color is red and his dream job is to become a firefighter because he’d watched a movie about it just last week (but before that, he wanted to be a teacher and before that he wanted to be a chef and before that he wanted to be a painter). He lives in Seoul in a big house with his Umma and Appa and he doesn’t have many friends but he’s happy Minhyuck has decided to play with him. 

Minwoo tells him all this over the slice of brownie he buys him. He is not entirely sure why he is the one treating the rich kid but he does admit Minwoo is kind of endearing when he calls him hyung. He’s never been a hyung before. 

“Hyung, you’re a really good person. Only Umma treats me like this.”

He wants to feel proud but the comment only makes him sad. He doesn’t have two parents like Minwoo does but he’s always been surrounded by people who love him unconditionally. He ruminates the words and concludes there is a kind of loneliness that cannot be fulfilled with just parental love. 

“What about your Appa?”

“Appa is nice but he’s always too busy for Minwoo. I don’t get to see him much. I wish Hyung can be my Appa. You’re really nice. You kind of look like him too.” 

It’s the sort of comment that is laced with embarrassment and woe and he doesn’t have the heart to tell Minwoo how weird his word choices make it sound. Eventually, the topic moves on and he tells Minwoo he is from Jeju-do. He answers all of Minwoo’s curious questions about the island he’s only seen on the internet and in return, Minwoo tells him all about Seoul and all the cool things he wants to do with Minhyuck. 

Minwoo has ditched the blazer. The top of his shirt is unbuttoned. His sleeves are rolled up too from when he had helped him earlier. Like this, Minwoo seems less like the spoiled rich boy he'd thought he was and more like a kid who just wants a friend.

Appa always tells him if he treats others with love, it may not always come back to you but a person who’s been loved will always pass the affection on. He doesn’t know why he thinks of Appa but looking at Minwoo makes him miss Jeju-do. 

Minwoo finishes the brownie and he throws the tray for him. When he comes back, he fixes Minwoo’s sleeves and buttons the tops of his shirt before helping him into the stiff blazer again. They walk to the ballroom and when Minwoo slips his hand into his on the way back, he pretends he doesn’t notice.

A man is standing at the entrance of the room when they arrive. He looks left and right and finally straight where he meets his eyes. Minwoo shouts and lets his hand go to run to the man who is still staring at him. 

Minwoo’s Appa is a handsome man. He’s not very tall but there is a vibe to him that reminds him of the actors Wong Ahjumma is always swooning and gushing about. Minwoo looks nothing like his Appa the way he looks nothing like his either but there is something familiar about him. He wonders if he’s seen him on T.V. before.

He stops in front of the pair, a good meter away, and he's not sure if it’s because he’s embarrassed by how inappropriately dressed he is compared to the pair or if it’s because there seems to be an invisible line preventing him from crossing. Either way, he feels shy. Even with Minwoo in his arm, the man has not taken his eyes off of him and eventually it becomes unbearable enough, he finds himself looking down at his shoes which makes it ten times worse because now he’s focused on the hole and he doesn’t know why he feels ashamed but it is a bad feeling. 

“Who is this, Minwoo?”

He startles at the voice more than the fact that he’s being addressed. It feels like déjà vu and Minwoo’s Appa’s kind but commanding voice vibrates in his mind like there is a wide amphitheater in his head. There is something curiously familiar with the way he reacts to it. It imitates a timbre he has heard in passing. Maybe on television. He doesn’t hate it. But he doesn’t like it either. Though the longer he is in their presence the quicker his feelings begin to veer in the direction of the former.

Because seeing Minwoo in his arms makes him finally understand. And now that he finally understands, he’s beginning to want it and since he wants it, he’s beginning to feel this horrible sinking feeling in his stomach—he thinks it is called envy.

His hands are shaking a little from where they are stuffed in his pockets and he feels his ears turn hot with the heat of a midsummer’s afternoon and all he wants is for Minwoo’s Appa to look away but the stare has intensified now bathing him in a cloud of helplessness. He wants to take the first plane back to Jeju-do, to Sunshine Town and home and Appa who can probably make it all better. 

“This is Minhyuck Hyung, Appa! He’s really nice! He bought Minwoo a brownie! And he’s from Jeju-do! And—”

He runs. He runs as if he’s being chased by ghosts and other unspeakable things of the night. He doesn’t know what he is running from, _who_ he is running from, and even if he does know why, he pretends he does not. His sneakers squeak against the glazed flooring and his heart slams against his chest walls the way he has seen the ocean waves meet the rocks and when he chances a look behind him just before he enters the elevators, Minwoo’s Appa is still staring at him. 

* * *

Minhyuck comes home as if he’s been spirited away. He leaves half of his dinner unfinished, sleeps in until the afternoons on the weekends, stays up till midnight on the weekdays, and has generally become a shell of himself.

Minhyuck’s disheartened state remains a mystery for Donghyuck though he is 90% sure it had to do with the trip. It’s been almost two weeks since his return but nothing has changed from the first day he’s arrived, tripping on his unlaced sneakers to attack him in an embrace tight enough he felt he could’ve suffocated. Minhyuck isn’t one for showy affections preferring quiet and subtle actions but for the entire first week, he has had to pry him off just to use the bathroom. 

He consults Renjun, his accountant who has become a close friend from the town next door. 

“Maybe he’s in puberty or something,” he suggests, eyeing the financial reports in front of him.

He huffs, his fingers circling his straw to swirl the iced drink in his hand. He takes a sip, lets the citrusy drink slide down his throat, and he contemplates. 

“He’s 9.” 

Renjun laughs. Next to him, Chenle, the high school help he’s hired to help Jisung on the busier days, finishes putting the cups away. He takes his apron to hang on the wall and says, “Maybe he got rejected by someone he likes?”

He considers Chenle’s words. The thought of someone rejecting his baby doesn’t sit right with him and the idea of Minhyuck having his first love when he is just 9 doesn’t make him feel good either. The traitorous part of him reminds him age means nothing when it comes to feelings and bad decisions (he can attest to that), but years of fatherhood intuition shows Minhyuck’s dismay does not stem from the romantic kind of feelings. 

“Maybe he misses his other dad.”

He chokes on the ice chip he’s been gnawing at. An uncomfortable silence descends on them and Chenle hurriedly pulls an amused Jisung out the door. He weakly returns their calls of goodbye and when they have gone, he pretends to be busy with the papers in front of him so that he does not have to meet Renjun’s judging eyes. Renjun isn’t one for gossip but he has a talent in reading his thoughts with the precision of an Olympic medal champion. 

“I know you have your demons and we don’t have to talk about it but think of Minhyuck. He’s 9 and he’s never asked you about his father. Do you think it’s because he’s not curious? Give him some credit, Haechan.”

It’s not that he’s doesn’t want to talk about Lee Minhyung but where would he even begin? 17 years of history and feelings cannot be unraveled as easily as one would unroll toilet papers. Would a 9-year-old even understand the decisions he’s chosen to make? What if he wants to meet Minhyung? Then what? When Minhyung is with the right kind of person and has made the right kind of family? No, thank you. He’d rather step on ten Lego pieces then address the elephant in the room. 

Not to mention the lack of his existence in Lee Minhyung’s mind. And even if he suddenly recovers all his memories, it would not change a thing. Flowers don’t belong in flower shops. That person does not belong to him either. 

“Anyway, even if you don’t want to tell him the truth, don’t you think he needs another parent figure in his life? Studies show that kids with two parents have more economic and social opportunities,” Renjun says, pausing to circle something on his paper.

“I don’t know why you keep rejecting Yukhei. He’s easy on the eyes and plays well with Minhyuck. Was your ex that amazing you can’t forget about him even a decade later? Unless he’s the CEO of some huge conglomerate, you have no excuse Lee Haechan.”

He laughs even if Renjun’s comments make him uneasy. He rests his head on the palm of his hand, watches as the Christmas lights in front of the coffee shop illuminate the night in bright vivid colors. The red and blue and orange and green repeats in his eyes until he sees flashes of it even as he looks away to the random doodles he’s drawn onto the document in front of him. 

It is early January but he thinks fondly of a time where it had been the end of the world with the grand deaths of the fireworks accompanying the end of summer. These days, recalling the stories he’d shared with Minhyung evokes more nostalgia than pain. It certainly doesn’t come easy and the details of some have long left his mind but where there used to be regret has given way to acceptance and a tentative kind of joy. 

He is 27.

He’s learned to wish for Lee Minhyung’s happiness even if he isn’t the cause of it. 

* * *

At night after he bids Renjun goodbye and all the lights in the coffee shop have been shut and all the doors have been locked, he goes upstairs to find Minhyuck sitting in front of the television. He’s watching some sort of variety show with a name that is too long for him to recall but he isn’t entirely sure he is paying attention to everything that is happening on the screen either. There’s a blank almost glazed look in Minhyuck's eyes.

He sits next to Minhyuck and Minhyuck falls into his side. He’s grown too big to curl up on his lap the way he'd done as a toddler and he no longer reports every little detail of his day anymore and he’s even learned how to cook ramen on days he is too tired to cook. Lee Minhyuck is growing up right in front of his eyes and there is nothing he can do to stop it. 

He grips the hand that has become as big as his. 

“You’re my favorite, Lee Minhyuck.”

Minhyuck head falls onto his shoulder. 

“You’re my favorite too, Appa.” 


	7. Chapter 7

There is a sort of retrospective humbleness when you learn to let someone go. Donghyuck used to think love was enough but he’s come to realize that in life, you don’t need to be with someone who loves you deeply. The most important thing is that they are willing to weather the storms with you.

He cannot be that person for Minhyung. For him, the chance to have met Minhyung in this lifetime, to have loved him in his youth, and to have him in his thoughts once in a while is enough for him. Being together and staying by each other’s side isn’t important anymore. When unfulfilled promises pile up, you’ve come to realize the things that have once given you joy and happiness are now the shackles that hold you back from growth.

Being alone, you learn to let go of the expectations and excitements that accompanies a relationship. Loneliness is a tragic thing but for him, it is also the greatest freedom. Fate is a fickle thing. It is enough for him to live up to himself. Living up to be the person Minhyung needs by his side, living up to the standards of the world, it is a tough thing to do.

For him, Lee Minhyung will always be the dream he has no courage to chase and a regret he has no strength to voice. Love has always been for the brave.

And he has always been a coward.

* * *

The cold journeys to wherever winter goes, forgotten like an old lover from the past and life returns to Sunshine Town when spring graces Jeju-do’s green cliffs, canola fields, and amicable clear waves that sweep the white shores. Everything that has fallen victim to winter’s malice is reborn.

With the arrival of much-anticipated temperate and pleasant weather, Minhyuck makes peace with his desolation, and he makes peace with Minhyuck’s inevitable growth. He is 27. Minhyuck is 9. Their days are monotonous, repetitive, and quiet. They find their happiness in the uneventful days and unexciting nights.

April begins with a visit from Sunshine Town’s mayor. Mrs. Young is a kind elderly lady who is always planning her retirement only to be re-elected by the villagers every year. She had been one of the first people who had accepted him immediately and over the years they have formed a friendship that borders between adopted grandson and Go-Stop partners. The visit is unexpected, a disparity from their dull days, but he welcomes her nonetheless into the table at the corner of the room where he usually spends his afternoons calculating the shop’s inventory.

Jisung makes them ssanghwa-cha, a blend of mixed herbal roots with egg yolk, a favorite of Mrs. Young, and although he isn’t a fan of the bitter taste, he downs it on Mrs. Young’s insistence. For medicinal purposes, she claims, so that he can have a healthy body in case he wants to have another child to accompany Minhyuck. He has long gotten used to the callous words of those from the suburbs but the piece of himself who has been raised to speak in nuances does not correct her on his glaringly single status.

Instead, he hums politely and tilts the left-over roots inside his teacup back and forth. They engage in small talk—discussing the mild weather, about Minhyuck’s studies, about Mrs. Jang’s tangerine trees threatening the east side of the village until his patience runs thin and he says, “I would love to continue our discussion on your husband’s osteoporotic knees but Minhyuck will be home soon and I have to get his lunch ready.”

Mrs. Young slaps the air in front of her and replies, “Forget about lunch. He’s probably cheating that bibimbap restaurant out of a free meal again. The girls there let him get away with too much. I’m telling you, Haechan-ah, he’s going to be a heartbre—“

“The reason for your visit,” he says, cutting Mrs. Young off whatever had been at the tip of her tongue.

Mrs. Young’s eyes brighten as if she finally remembers the reason for her visit and he ponders if maybe she should retire (for real this time).

“Oh! I almost forget!” she says clapping her hands together. “Sunshine Town is hosting an important guest on behalf of the governor. Some big shot company in Seoul has taken over some of the towns in the eastern province and they’re sending a representative over so that they can get a sense of how the smaller towns on the island operate.”

He raises a brow. “Why aren’t they staying at the towns in the eastern province if that’s where they’re going to be developing?”

“Well, they’re not making developments on the land. I heard it’s an agreement between the government and the company and I don’t know much about the details of it but think of it as a renovation for those towns. And I don’t mean to brag but Sunshine Town’s been one of the more prolific towns in recent years. I’m sure they just want an example to go by.”

“That’s very nice of them to help the smaller towns but I’m still not sure where you’re going with this.”

“The governor has offered the representative a room at the inn over at the next town but apparently, he wants the true authentic experience. Seeing how it’s just you and Minhyuck, I want to know if you’ll be willing to take him in.”

He frowns and takes the finished cups to the sink. Mrs. Young follows him.

“I’m not sure if this is a good idea…the shop’s going to be busier now that spring is here and –“

Mrs. Young slaps his arms, cutting him off.

“Oh, it’ll only be a month, Haechan-ah. I heard the representative is a young, handsome man too. Just think of it as making a new friend. You have nothing to worry about and you’ll be compensated. I wouldn’t propose the idea if there is nothing in it for you.”

He ignores her frivolous comment. He wipes the cups, places it back in their respective places inside the cupboard, and says, “I’d like to talk to Minhyuck about it first. I don’t know how comfortable he is with a stranger staying with us but I’ll keep you updated.”

Mrs. Young smiles with the confidence of someone who has already received a positive decision. She grabs his arm, pulls him back to the table and replies, “Sure, dear. Let me know about your decision tomorrow. Anyway, going back to my husband, do you know any good orthopedics in Seoul?”

* * *

He proposes the idea to an excited Minhyuck who is always open to meeting new people. When he calls Mrs. Young to tell her of his decision, he chokes upon hearing the amount of compensation he will be receiving. It’s not the most ideal situation but he considers the money and Minhyuck’s desire to take taekwondo lessons and the shop’s expenses and eventually concludes a month shouldn’t be too bad if the representative is a decent person.

The night before the representative arrives, he clears his room, moving some of his belongings to Minhyuck’s to make a guestroom. He changes the sheets on his bed and pulls a futon to Minhyuck’s for himself to use. He’s not sure if the guest will be bringing his own toiletries but he places an extra set of toothbrush and towel inside the bathroom, brings an extra cup up from the shop, and buys a pair of cheap slippers from the convenience store. He spends the entire night with Minhyuck deep cleaning the house and he’s a bit nervous about the whole thing but Minhyuck’s elation distracts him and he wonders if it had only been him who enjoys the peaceful and repetitive days.

He spends the next morning helping Jisung and Chenle at the shop. Mrs. Young has agreed to bring the representative to his home at night. During the afternoon, he heads to the cliff. It is a lovely day and when he looks up, he sees the large cumulus clouds drag across the May sky in that confusing and chaotic pattern, a testament to the approaching hot weather and the sight brings him back to that hill behind the mansion where relatives of the same clouds had also ornamented a different sky.

He walks barefoot through the grass and the dew that had formed in the early morning seeps in between his toes to the bottom of his feet and he breathes in the wuthering winds of Jeju-do to the rhythm of the clear waters. They caress the colossal boulders at the base of the cliff weathering sentiments and pieces of the rock-like greedy lovers who only know how to take.

There is a man by the edge of the cliff and he stands there for a long time with his back facing him and his body pointed towards the strait and his hands in his pockets. He is slightly taller than him with a swimmer’s figure and the ironed and fitted grey suit he wears stretches the plane of his broad back and strong legs. There is something familiar about the silhouette and he waits for him to turn around but he is as still as a statue. He wonders what the man is thinking; if he feels the same emptiness he does when he stares into the vast space between him and the rest of the world.

He leaves.

* * *

Night falls and Mrs. Young invites him to the welcome party the town is throwing for the representative and he considers going until Renjun calls him about discrepancies in the shop’s finances; so he spends the rest of the evening with Minhyuck at the kitchen table where Minhyuck finishes his homework and he works on the documents Renjun sends him.

It is almost midnight and although Minhyuck wants to stay up to greet the guest, he eventually succumbs to his fatigue, falling asleep with his pencil clutched in his hands like a fallen warrior with his sword. He carries Minhyuck to bed where he kisses Minhyuck’s forehead and after, he pulls the sheets up to his chin and tucks in the sides. He puts Minhyuck’s books into his backpack and cleans up the papers spread like dinner dishes on the table. Then he waits under the bright kitchen lights where the ceiling fan spins incessantly creating shadows that circle the wall in front of him.

The doorbell rings exactly at midnight like a premonition and he wakes from his half slumbering state to open the door. Mr. Yoon stands at his entrance with a body in his arm. He cannot see the man’s face from the way his head dips to his chest but he recognizes the grey suit. He’s passed out and even a good meter away, he can smell the alcohol reeking from the pair. Mr. Yoon deposits the representative into his arms and bids him goodnight.

He carries the man upstairs. His head lolls into the crook of his neck. His quiet soft breaths tickle his skin. He almost trips twice from the weight of the man’s body on top of his but eventually, he manages to haul the stranger into his room where he throws the body onto the bed like a sack of rice but the zipper of his sweater catches the buttons on the man’s dressed shirt and abruptly, he finds himself tumbling into the bed to fall on top of the sleeping man.

He flushes red at this strange and unfamiliar intimacy, scrambles to his knees even if the stranger does smell kind of nice and familiar underneath the alcohol and his chest had felt kind of nice to lean on. His psyche creates a blockage against the thoughts before they veer into dangerous territories. 

The stranger moves to turn his head into his direction but it is dark enough it becomes difficult to make out his features aside from the shadows of the sudden movements. He goes to turn the bedside light on. Immediately it spills into the corner of the room so that their silhouettes stretch across the yellowed walls and all is quiet except for the steady breathing from the man but the man might as well not have breathed at all for he finds there is nothing he can hear except for the torrent of blood that rushes to his head. His legs give out and he falls into the space at the end of the creaking bed.

Of all the ways, he thought today could’ve turned out, Lee Minhyung sleeping in his bed had not been one of them.

He closes the light. He counts to ten. He opens the light. He bites back a scream and attempts to push Minhyung’s body away though he isn’t sure what help that will do. He is already in his bed. His face turns as red as the carnations on his desk. He sits there and tries to form coherent thoughts but the ten different scenarios inside his head interrupt each other with the similarity of ten simultaneous traffic accidents.

He contradicts himself for the longest time until he finds the courage to crawl tentatively to the space next to Minhyung. Lee Minhyung at 30 is as breathtaking as he was at 20—dangerous angles, unblemished pale skin like glass, the jet-black hair styled away from his face revealing all the features he used to trace before he slept. His hands move without his permission to ghost Minhyung’s eyes, his nose, his lips, the shape of his face, the strands of his hair, and his ears that bend at his will.

He is 17 again, in Busan, in that unnamed hotel room, and Minhyung is sleeping besides him unaware of his betrayal and he is 27 but he realizes nothing has changed in the 10 years that have passed. Dream or nightmare, everything is chaos around him, and in his body, where every cell has begun to wake the memories of where Minhyung has kissed, where Minhyung has touched, where Minhyung has loved, there is only heartache.

It is a physical kind of pain comparable to his heart pulled in one hundred different directions or his bones, snapped joint by joint, or paintings, carved into his lungs and the 10 years of regret, of longing, of torment, these things he has been trying to contain, they fall behind his eyes and for a long time, he feels like he can cry forever.

Minhyung stirs and he watches with bated breath as he brings a hand to his chest and he would not have noticed it at all for his eyes are glued to Minhyung’s face but the world has always been cruel to him, and when warm light catches the glare on Minhyung’s hand, he cannot miss the direct path it draws, of the beautifully crafted platinum band on his finger. 

He fumbles to his feet and his legs give in almost twice like a newborn deer before he succeeds to the bathroom. He cries, violent and wild and uncontrollable, and eventually he cries hard enough, he vomits into the toilet. His lunch floats in the toilet bowl. The bathroom smells of two-day-old seolleongtang. He is convinced his lungs have turned upside down.

What bullshit, he thinks.

What had he been thinking? Wishing for Lee Minhyung’s happiness when he’d really wanted to wish for their happiness; letting Lee Minhyung go when all he’d wanted to do was to stay by his side; insisting nothing matters and nothing will change when everything has changed.

What fucking bullshit.


	8. Chapter 8

Donghyuck stares at the toilet bowl until it stops looking like a toilet and more like the gates to the fourth dimension. His eyes burns red. The skin around has become tight with the uncomfortable stickiness that accompanies the conclusion of a breakdown. He sits in the dark abyss of the bathroom for minutes then hours until his muscle begins to atrophy but he doesn’t register the pain until he pushes himself up, clinging onto the bar attached to the tiled walls as if he is learning to walk for the first time.

His hands move blindly to switch on the lights. He feels like he is on a trampoline—up becomes down and right becomes left and all around, his surrounding compounds into a blur of blue and white tiles. He goes to the sink, turns on the faucet, braces both hands on the side to stare into the running water bleeding into the drain. He counts backward from 10. Then he brushes his teeth, washes his face. He returns to Minhyuck’s room.

Minhyuck is sleeping oblivious to the rest of the world. He’s moved positions, sleeping on his stomach with his face turned to the slightly opened windows. He tugs the stretched arm back into the covers. Then he pulls out his futon folded in the corner of the room. He empties his mind, slips into the sheets. He feels cold all over, his comforter providing little to no warmth despite its thickness, and even though he has cried a lifetime of tears in the bathroom, in his room, and in the last ten years, it doesn’t stop the familiar sting pinching the corner of his eyes.

Nothing has happened but it also feels like everything he's been building from the last decade has fallen apart. Minhyung’s features ghost his fingers burning in the places he’s touched as if he is holding his hand above a hot stove.

He stares at the adjacent space, imagines Minhyung’s figure pressed against the other side of the same wall and for the rest of the night, he focuses on the damn wall until the rough embedded patches of the white paint begin to look like a face from an impressionist painting and then, dawn breaks, and he hadn’t realized he’s stayed up the entire night until his head begins to hurt in the way only accounting reports can replicate.

He folds the futon, steps into the damn bathroom still faintly smelling of seolleongtang and under the showerhead, he lets the water wash his thoughts away into the rusting drain, into the dirty pipes and sewer lines until his skin blooms patches of red. After he’s changed, he goes downstairs to sit by his usual seat. The morning is quiet and orange and he sits there gazing at his coffee that has begun to cool.

He dials Mrs. Young’s number. When she doesn’t pick up, he calls again, and again, until he can recite the number backward. She’s clearly only wakened and it doesn’t come as a surprise when his request to relocate Minhyung to a different host family is rejected. He calls Jaemin whose secretary tells him he has gone on a 14-day retreat with Jeno into the mountains. He’s run out of people to call. It is 6:30 A.M. He sits there until it is 6:45, then 7:00, then 7:15.

He goes upstairs. He tries to be quiet but the wood underneath him creaks from years of pressure. Every step he takes is his own personal hell. This must be what firefighters feel like, he thinks. Before they enter the wreckage inferno—devastated, ruined, and obliterated by a fire they know they cannot extinguish. This is hell and he is facing the devil himself.

Their home is a modest two-bedroom apartment with a connected kitchen and living room and if you were to stand in the middle of the staircase bridging the shop to the apartment, you would be able to see half of the house. Minhyuck is standing in front of the bathroom which faces the rest of the living area.

In his haste, he’s left the door open and when he nears the top of the stairs, he hears the trails of a conversation but the words are too quiet and muffled for him to deduce the content. Minhyuck catches his eyes when he steps in. He runs to hide behind his back, uncharacteristic of his normal sociable persona, and he takes his time to look at the floor, the ceiling, the spread of knick-knacks sitting on the shelf by the wall, until he finds his courage to look at Minhyung. 

His hair resembles a wild shrub, untamed and chaotic with the pieces taking flight in diverging directions. The morning light streams in from the window and Donghyuck can see the dust that gathers in the air from the path the sun paves but he can also see the way the buttons are opened to expose the pale skin underneath and the yellowed alcoholic stains of Minhyung’s dressed shirt, evidence of a hectic night.

Minhyung stands there under the light like a revelation, like a dream, like a nightmare and he looks shy and embarrassed and scare but also in wonder and reverence, and the side of him who has not forgotten, who has not let go, who cannot move on begins to reach for the disheveled Minhyung inside his mind.

"Hi, you must be Haechan-ssi. I want to apologize about last night.”

It is the warmth of Minhyuck against the back of his legs that grounds him. There is a feeling associated with an old memory or a song you have not heard of in a long time that is more than nostalgia, less than sentimentality and this unnamed, unrecallable mood circles him, lingers on his skin, bringing him to fossilized places and a time he cannot return to.

“It’s fine, Minhyung-ssi. I understand how the residents here can get.”

He can see Minhyung’s guarded eyes, calculating, always calculating his next words, the sentences he will string, the answers he will give and he has never envisioned himself to be one of those people to be subjected to Minhyung’s insincere way of conversing. But time is a fearsome and formidable foe. And 10 years is a long time. 17 years of lost memories is an even longer time.

“Is something wrong?” he asks when Minhyung continues to look at him with curious eyes bordering amusement. Then he replies, “No…do we know each other from somewhere? I’m sure I haven’t introduced myself yet.”

His heart heart stutters, stumbles on the tendons attached to the muscle and then he says with conviction before his hesitation becomes suspicious, “Mrs. Young has informed me of the details before your arrival.”

His answer placates Minhyung who nods and says, “I see. Please address me as ‘Mark,’ Haechan-ssi. ‘Minhyung,’ sounds a bit...stiff. I don’t use my Korean name much unless it is in the formal setting. Seeing how I’ll be in your care for the next month, I’d like it if we can become friends.”

‘Mark,’ the name he’d adopted in Canada which he had teased him endlessly about, a desire he has found he still retains after hearing the name. He wants to laugh at Minhyung’s words, never mind the fact they’ve spent half a lifetime together, never mind the fact their son is standing not two feet away, never mind the fact he is still irrevocably affected by everything that is Lee Minhyung, and never mind the fact every trace, every memory of him has been erased from Lee Minhyung’s existence. He guesses they can be friends if he is able to ignore their history though the likelihood of that happening is another story. 

“If that’s want you want. Please make yourself comfortable,” he says, pulling Minhyuck to his room and stopping when he hears Minhyung ask, “Where are you going?”

“I have to take my son to school.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, do you mind if I come with you? I’d like to get a sense of how the schools here are constructed.”

His voice, his expressions, the way he stands, the way he breathes—nothing has changed. It is the relationship between them that has. 

He used to think there were no such thing as eternal memories. Even the ones that are the most beloved to you can fall victim to time. You might remember them in the next year, in the next 5 years, maybe even the next 10 years but slowly, you will surely forget the color of the sweater you wore that day or the names of the places you visited, and even the precious words exchanged under a setting sun, all these things can easily slip without a moment’s notice.   
  


He finds his eternal memories in Minhyung’s eyes. These eternal memories that have been carved into his bones. And unlike Minhyung who will never again know of his favorite color, his favorite season, his dreams from his youth, his vices and virtues, the way they fit against each other, the way they fought to be with each other, he cannot forget. 

The watermelon drinks he shared with Minhyung that spring; the color of the sweater he stole from Minhyung that last summer day; the way the Brooklyn Bridge stood grand and dignified on the New York skyline that autumn; and the warmth of Minhyung’s naked back against his chest that winter he left—he remembers it all like an old song which is why he shifts, avoids Minhyung’s eyes and he says, “…Maybe another time, we’re a bit short on time and I don’t think you’re in any state to go out. There are extra toiletries in the bathroom and your luggage is downstairs.”

He bends his knee to meet Minhyuck’s eyes who has been silently watching the exchange the entire time, says with a non-negotiable voice, “Go get ready, Minhyuck-ah. Appa will wait for you downstairs.”

Minhyuck nods, wraps an arm around his neck, and he’s off to his room without sparing Minhyung a glance.

He doesn’t either as he descends downstairs.

* * *

It’s much too early to go to school and he reckons they might have to wait a bit even after they arrive, so they walk slow and silent. They say ‘hi,’ to Mr. Jang who is watering flowers in his yards, and Mrs. Park who is collecting last night’s laundry, and Jisung and Chenle and Bibimbap Noona who are all on their way to high school which begins earlier, and after they greet the entire world, it is quiet except for their steps kissing the paved paths.

Minhyuck walks ahead of him with his hands holding onto the straps of his black backpack and he thinks back to a time where they had walk the same path, hand-in-hand, and the yellow of Minhyuck’s school bag had bounced off the sunlight. They stop by a creek, watch the clear water glide down the rocky and muddy brook. Minhyuck turns to him, hesitant and unsure, and he says, “Appa…do you hate Mark Ahjussi?”

He dips his hands into the stream and his veins tinge blue from the cold and he replies, “I don’t hate Mark Ahjussi.” He wipes his hands playfully on Minhyuck’s cheeks. “Why are you asking?”

Instead of running away and reciprocating the action as he usually does, Minhyuck lets the water run down his face, down his neck until it soaks the collar of his white T-shirt grey. “When you talk to Ahjussi…it feels like you’re a different person. It doesn’t feel like Appa.”

He softens, crouches down, lets his knees dig into the pebbly road.

“I’m sorry if I scared you earlier. Appa is just a bit stress about some things with the shop.”

“Then, can I be friends with Mark Ahjussi?”

Minhyuck looks hopeful and conflicted, clutching onto the black straps hard enough his knuckles reflect white. He smooths the back of his hair where the ends stand up like the tail of a duckling and he forces himself to say with absolute resolution, “You can but I don’t know if that is a good idea. Mark Ahjussi will only be here for a month and we don’t know when or if he’ll ever be back.”

Minhyuck nods, biting his lips, and he looks down at his new shoes after he'd finally forced him to throw his old ones away. “Appa doesn’t want Minhyuck to feel sad when Mark Ahjussi leaves.”

Minhyuck meets his eyes. He can tell there is something Minhyuck wants to say but instead, Minhyuck links their fingers together, pulling him ahead. The road to school stretches on and on, and the melody of the running creek accompanies them for the rest of the time. Beyond, the sun rises brilliantly.

He wishes these peaceful days can last.

* * *

After sending Minhyuck off, he returns to the shop. He stays downstairs, getting the café ready for business. He cleans the wooden tables, arranges and rearranges the cups, counts the inventory, checks the register, tinkers with the coffee machine, and cleans the tables again.

A steady flow of customers begins to appear for their breakfast run and as he tends to the line, he pretends Minhyung isn’t upstairs in his house, most likely judging how small and old everything is.

The Lee Minhyung he knows detests discomfort, a given for his status. The best cars, the best hotel rooms, the best flights, and he wonders if he is suffering in his tiny room and decrepit apartment.

In the late morning, he hears the groan of the stairs. Minhyung appears shortly later, dressed in another white dress shirt, smooth and void of stains, and black trousers. He’s without the blazer and even with his hair wet, dripping droplets onto the front of his chest leaving small see-through dots, he still manages to look like he is going to sign another multi-million-dollar deal with his client. He looks younger and softer and less guarded with his hair down reminding him of the Minhyung in his high school days.

The traffic has slowed and he knows it will not pick up until the afternoon when Jisung and Chenle are off from school. He ignores Minhyung, pretends he is thin air and continues to flip the pages of the magazine he’s reading. He’s not actually reading the magazine, hasn’t been for a while now since he heard the stairs squeak, but he hopes he looks interested enough in: “Inside the Murky World of Butterfly Catchers,” so that Minhyung will not attempt conversation.

“Hey.”

Clearly, his acting skills leave much to be desired. He flips the page. Instead of a proper response, he hums.

“So, I thought I’ll take it easy today considering last night’s event. Do you need any help around the café?”

He’s pretty sure Minhyung cannot tell coffee beans from chocolate powder. He takes a long slow look around the empty coffee shop, gives Minhyung a pointed look, and then returns his ‘attention’ to the magazine. He’s staring at the butterfly in the picture with so much intensity, the insect begins to look like a creature from mars with its black body trickling into the blue wings.

“Okay, point noted,” he hears him say and he begins to wonder why Minhyung is still pushing for a conversation when his disdain is clear.

“Do you mind if I stay here to complete some work? I promise I won’t get in the way. And if you need help, I’ll be arou—“

Donghyuck slams the magazine down onto the counter, hard enough to cut Minhyung off but soft enough it doesn’t come as aggressive as he likes.

“Do as you wish, Mark-ssi. You’re Sunshine Town’s very important guest. You don’t need to ask for my permission to sit down.”

He shoots a glare, fully expecting one back, but instead, there is only amusement in Minhyung’s expression that mimics the one from early morning. He’s wearing a small smile like he’s won in a game he had not known they were playing. He feels flustered and out of his elements. His ears feel hot and he stomps to the sink, pretending to wash cups that already have been wash about five times.

He knows he is being watched even with his back towards Minhyung and he keeps his attention stubbornly focused on the glass he’s scrubbed hard enough, the tiny flower painted on it erases off. Then he hears Minhyung walk away to a familiar corner and the vibration of a chair being dragged out. He gives the cup one more scrub and then he puts it back along with the rest of its comrade. He goes to hide behind the large coffee machine and pretends to fiddle with the handles and switches. When he deems it safe enough, he sticks his head out just enough to chance a glance.

Minhyung is sitting at his favorite table, the one he uses to also complete his work and his eyes are focused on the laptop in front of him, his hands coming up occasionally to flip through the papers spread in front of him or to adjust the thin-rimmed glasses he’s wearing and at one point, he runs his hand through his hair parting them like the sea, and as he stretches his arms reaching for the sky, the white dress shirt which has been unbuttoned slightly to look casual and relaxed pulls taut across his chest straining against his slim but built and broad frame.

The same sunlit path that had visited his apartment in the morning streams into the open windows next to Minhyung lighting up a highway of dust and as it caresses Minhyung’s figure bringing half of his face into the sun and the other half in the shadows, their eyes meet.

A ship horns in the strait behind them and they exchange a million words, a million looks until he breaks the spell to fall into the seat in front of the register, avoiding Minhyung's gaze for the rest of the afternoon. 


	9. Chapter 9

They ignore each other for the rest of the afternoon. Minhyung’s quick precise typing accompanies Donghyuck’s movements as he wipes down the counters and tables with the vigor of a professional cleaner. The lack of conversation brings him fond images of a study with towering bookcases and ornate couches imported from Paris. Sitting under the afternoon sun until the evening until dusk, basking in the smell of old books and papers and dry ink with the wind bringing in the pheromone of the hyacinths outside the garden. The air inside the study always had that sweet and spicy and green dampness to it and for many afternoons, they lived inside this study as if nothing outside of it existed.

He liked watching Minhyung work. He found it more interesting than the dramas and variety shows on television, more beautiful than the aurora they saw that one winter and more captivating than the continuously moving world around them. He liked his determined eyes, his solemn form, and his austere stares. When Lee Minhyung was focused, it'd felt like he could solve any problem in his world. When Minhyung worked, he'd stayed quiet to watch. Today, there is no watching, only washing and pretending he isn’t sneaking glances.

He tends to the occasional customer. The afternoon arrives languidly with Jisung and Chenle tumbling into the shop, their laughter and conversation trailing behind the ring of the door. They greet him and he greets back and only after they’ve changed into their uniforms do they notice Minhyung sitting in the corner. He leaves them to their devices as they exchange names and greetings even when they slack off to bombard Minhyung with questions about Seoul, about the corporation, about his expensive watch, and his expensive car parked in the town hall’s lot. He’s starting on an Americano when he hears Jisung say, “You know, Mark Hyung, you look a lot like—“

“Park Jisung, I’m not paying you to look pretty. Stop acting like a fanboy and come help Chenle with the orders.”

To his credit, Jisung looks chastened. He scratches the back of his hair before ambling off to the register. He pours the Americano down the drain, ruined in his diversion, and begins on a new cup. He focuses on the rich brown as it swirls away from him and he’s aware of Minhyung’s intense gaze (he always is) but he ignores it in favor of the customer in front of him who is impatiently tapping his finger on the aged counter.

The orders gradually pick up and soon, it becomes busy enough he doesn’t have to look for distractions. For a while, he works as he does on any other day. Jisung enters the order, he makes the drinks, and Chenle cleans the cup. They switch positions when it is appropriate and in the lull of the steady orders, he begins to feel a little more like himself and less like the frantic teenager boy he’d felt he’d emulated earlier in the day.

Shortly later, Minhyuck comes home in a flurry of quick steps. The door rings behind him and the string of cranes resting near the entrance writhes with the wind. There is an excited grin on his face and he high fives Jisung who picks him up to spin him into Chenle’s arms who kisses him on the cheeks. He watches the scene fondly. Minhyuck twists from Chenle’s hold, laughing as he avoids the peppering kisses, and he bounds up to him, hugging his waist and burying his face into his stomach.

“Appa!”

He runs his hand through Minhyuck’s fine hair, the ends of which is lighter from all the time he spends in the sun.

“Why are you so excited? Did something happen?”

Minhyuck grins revealing the slight crook of his canines and he says, “Me and Sanha are going to go pick shells by the shore!” He lets him go to grab himself a strawberry milk box from the shop’s fridge, only there because they’ve run out of room upstairs. He rests his elbow on the counter and leans his weight on one foot and he replies, “Who’s chaperoning?”

Minhyuck sticks the straw in. He takes a long sip and when he finishes he lets out a loud sigh, not unlike the old men from the small bar nearby when they’ve taken the first of many shots of soju.

“Um, it’s just me and Sanha but it’ll be okay because it’s sunny today so—“

He frowns at Minhyuck’s hurried response as if he’s trying to bypass the words. The shore meeting the strait connects the East Sea and the Yellow Sea. It is calm and temperate on most good days, reflecting the boundless blue skies, but mid-spring in Jeju-do can be capricious giving into fickle and bipolar weathers quickly without warning.

“Absolutely not. I’ve told you multiple times, Minhyuck. You’re not allowed to go near the shore without an adult. Sanha too. Do you know how dangerous that is?”

Minhyuck face falls even if he knows it’s the answer he’d expected.

“But I’ve already told Sanha I’ll be going and –“

“Well, you can call Sanha to let him know you won’t be going.”

There aren’t many things he will deny Minhyuck of but his safety is non-negotiable. Minhyuck pouts and he knows he’s going to protest until Minhyung says, “I can take them. I don’t mind. Besides, I’d like to visit the strait too.”

He’d forgotten Minhyung’s presence until he spoke, eyes lit up with excitement and he’s glad Jisung and Chenle are occupied because like this when father and son are wearing the same expression, even the blind can tell they are related. Minhyung’s enthusiasm confuses him. He’s never been the type of person to be involved with other people’s businesses unless it concerned him directly. Frankly, he doesn’t want to know or find out. All he wants to do is send Minhyung away and they can go back to being the strangers they are to each other. He’s about to tell Minhyung off when Minhyuck says hurriedly, “It’s…It’s fine! I’ll tell Sanha we can go another time.”

He hikes his backpack and makes his way to the stairs avoiding everyone’s eyes.

“I’m going to go upstairs, Appa. Bye Jisung Hyung, bye Chenle Hyung!”

He watches him go. Minhyung does too. The lack of greeting to Minhyung does not go unnoticed. He recalls his conversation with Minhyuck from the morning along the brook but there’s no time to ruminate because Chenle hands him another order and soon, he gets lull into the stream of orders waiting for him.

* * *

Dinner is an awkward affair with long stretches of silence and a slightly overcooked chicken when he'd been distracted by Minhyung stepping out of the bathroom in a white t-shirt and grey sweatpants, the condensation from the shower following him, leaving a train of fruity body-wash wafting in the thick air. He'd wanted to scream but he'd made do with screaming into the void that is in his head.

They sit crowded around the small kitchen table. Minhyuck sits next to him who is sitting across from Minhyung who is sitting in his usual seat. The change of position is jarring. He has always been used to the view of Minhyuck and the kitchen sink when he eats but now that Minhyung has joined them, his view shifts to the living room, the back of the tan couch, the incessant ticking of the clock hung above the television and Minhyung’s face in his eyes. It feels like he’s been transmigrated to a different dimension.

Minhyung's endless attempts at conversation is taken with hostility and in his aggression, the rest of the meal happens in absolute silence, with him doing his best to map the shape of the devoured chicken in front of him. Minhyuck risks indigestion, breathing in his meal before running off to his room to take shelter from the obvious tension in the kitchen. They clean up with no words exchanged and the pressure only increases when Minhyung’s offer to wash the dishes is rejected.

He knows he’s being callous. He’s thick-skinned, stubborn, tenacious in his continuous renunciation of Minhyung’s kindness but he doesn’t know how to interact with Minhyung in any other way. Their relationship had always imitated pirate ships rocking from one extreme to the other with a shared dependency that had ruined them. They had cared, and loved, and obsessed over each other to the extreme and even if Minhyung has forgotten everything, he has not.

10 years of separation cannot change that and if he allows himself to slip into the him who still cares, who still loves, who is still obsessed, then what had the last 10 years been for? The last 10 years of hardship and misery he’d suffered would be in vain if any other situation came out of their current predicament, he tells himself.

For him, there has never been a middle ground with Minhyung—he'd loved him too deeply for that to be possible. Lee Donghyuck and Lee Minhyung can never be friends. They can never go back to being lovers.

Even the label of ‘strangers,’ seems too intimate.

* * *

He is on the balcony. Even though the big camphor tree sitting in front of the building blocks most of the picture in front of him, Yeosu’s twinkling lights glimmer through the spaces of the branches shining onto the damped green leaves. The night is pleasant and clear with the north star visible but out of his reach. He brings his knees to his chest sitting on the tiled floor smudged with dirt from the tomatoes he’s been trying to plant for the past few weeks. Nothing grows despite his best effort. He concludes the things that are not meant to be his will never be his.

It’s not as sad as he makes it to be. Life, after all, is a series of meeting and parting and meeting and parting and he’s learned, if you don’t have the courage to let certain people go, you’ll never grow up and learn to stand on your own. There shouldn’t be anything sad about separations, departures, and farewells, he thinks. It happens. 

He sits there until even Yeosu’s lights begin to burn out one by one beyond the horizon, and even after the last yellow has faded from his view, he continues to sit and ruminate about the mysteries and workings of goodbyes.

The door slides open then it slides close and when Minhyung stands next to him, arms resting on the rusting metal bars, a burning cigarette in his hand, he pretends not to notice. Minhyung takes a long drag. He watches the white wisps as they gather into the cool air, polluting the clear May evening, poisoning their lungs, killing and suffocating everything it touches but when it begins to cloak him like a warm blanket, he finds himself breathing it in as if it is his own.

“Do you hate me Haechan-ssi?”

“No, I don’t hate you.”

“Then, did I do something wrong?”

“No, there’s nothing you’ve done.”

“If you’re going to treat a person like this, you should at least give them a reason why.”

“Just think of me as a bad person, Mark-ssi. Maybe it’ll be easier for you to comprehend.”

“I don’t think you’re a bad person.”

“And that’s your conclusion after spending one day with me?”

“You don’t give me much to work with.”

“Mark-ssi, do you think being a good person and a bad person are mutually exclusive of one another?”

“Isn’t that it?”

The embers from the bud elope with the wind and he watches them go. It flies up and above until the same wind that had whisked it away extinguishes it. The door slides open again and Minhyuck stands there with a ringing phone in his hand and when he passes it to Minhyung, he sees the letters on the screen. He gets up, pats the filthy dirt and invisible dust from his body, and follows Minhyuck inside.

When he steps out from the shower, Minhyung is still on the balcony though the cigarette in his hand has long snuffed out. There’s a fond smile on his face as he talks to Eunji.

Donghyuck goes to bed.


	10. Chapter 10

It is seven-thirty when Donghyuck wakes. His nose is congested as it usually is in the morning and he shuffles inside the comforters until the heat becomes suffocating in that late summer way. The blue curtains inside Minhyuck’s room are closed but the windows have been slightly opened lending an entrance to the light that streams through the thin fluttering barriers.

He blindly reaches for his phone sitting on the dresser above him, tugging it from where it had been charging last night and he pulls hard enough the charger comes off with it, whacking his forehead. The messages he’d sent to Jaemin and Jeno remain unread. 

He throws the comforter off and climbs to his feet. Minhyuck is missing from his bed and he wonders if he had gone to school early. Since he’d turn 9 last summer, Minhyuck has developed a serious sense of independency and had demanded for his permission to venture to school by himself which had been indulged, seeing how the elementary school is on a relatively straight path only 15 minutes away by walking.

He welcomes the extra time in the morning for himself but it is another confirmation of Minhyuck’s continuous growth to which he both welcomes and rejects. Yesterday had been a disparity in the usual routine they’d adopted due to Minhyung’s presence and his eagerness to avoid Minhyung, but Minhyuck hadn’t said anything and for that he is grateful.

He makes Minhyuck’s bed. He’s smoothing out the sheets when he smells something burning from the kitchen. He has an inkling on what has happened but he says his prayers anyway before opening the door to see Minhyung standing in the kitchen, grey sweatpants hung low, glasses on the edge of his nose, and a green frying pan in his hand.

Smoke dances around the kitchen, opaque enough it obscures the stove and the hood greedily devours the drifting gas. Minhyuck is sitting on the kitchen table, his legs swinging back and forth as if he is watching the circus. When he registers the disapproving figure behind him, he squeaks, jumping off the table. He grabs his book-bag from where it had been resting by the foot of the chair and slips it on like a jet-pack.

“Good morning, Haechan-ssi!”

Minhyung remains oblivious to his growing displeasure. He gives a grin too bright for someone who had almost burned down the apartment and he resists the urge to rub his temples. He skips the greetings and says, “What are you doing?”

They share a simultaneous glance at the burnt pan and he shudders to think what the yellow, white, and brown-tinged blobs clustered together like a science experiment gone wrong is.

“I felt bad about last morning so I thought I’ll make breakfast today. Minhyuck said he likes scrambled eggs so—”

Minhyuck jumps at the mention of his name. He runs to the door, backpack bouncing after him.

“I-It’s okay Ahjussi! I’m not hungry anymore!” he says, putting on his shoe. After he finishes lacing it up he continues, “Um, I’ll be late for school so I’ll see you guys later! Bye Appa! Bye Ahjussi!”

They watch Minhyuck’s retreating facade as he goes, tripping down the last two steps and steadying himself only because of the banister that extends beyond the stairs. The bell on the door rings after him indicating he has gone and he turns to Minhyung who has the expression of one of those rejected toys from that one movie they used to watch as kids.

“Please refrain from burning down my apartment, Mark-ssi. Not everyone has a multi-billion corporation to fall back on,” he says.

He can’t help the words. His mouth is a broken faucet and the sentences leak out without his control.

“Sorry, I just wanted to…to do something for you guys,” Minhyung replies in that tone he would use when he has angered him but isn’t sure of what he has done to make him angry. He feels like he is seven again and Minhyung’s attention has been pulled away by someone else and he is angry but he is too proud to say something leaving Minhyung guessing on what he had done and not done.

“The best thing you can do for me is to stay in your boundaries,” he spits, running a hand through his hair that mimics Minhyung’s own bird nest. It’s only seven something and he already feels a migraine coming.

“Is it wrong of me to want to treat you guys well?” Minhyung says and he wants to reply that there is nothing wrong with him, and if there is anything wrong at all, it falls on his cowardice but he remains silent so Minhyung continues, “You’re my host and I understand how hard it is to be a single father. I want to help you."

His nails dig into his palms drawing crevices into the skin, dry and broken from years of manual work and fatherhood and a life without Lee Minhyung by his side tending to his every desire and need. So many times, Minhyung has complimented his hands, how small and delicate they were, how smooth and polished the skin was, how he was going to take care of him so that he wouldn’t need to use his hands unless it was to hold Minhyung’s or to play the piano; how they were the hands he was going to hold for the rest of his life.

The platinum ring on Minhyung’s finger shines brilliant against the smoke haze and something inside him snaps like a rubber band pulled to its brink, flying into space. He calls it envy caused by his past self and stories from long ago.

  
“No, no you understand _nothing._ Your one moment of sympathy will only hurt Minhyuck when you leave!”

Minhyung’s temporary presence, Minhyung’s fleeting attachment, Minhyung’s ephemeral existence—it will only break him when he leaves. And this time, he doesn’t think he can survive it.

* * *

Minhyung stays upstairs for the rest of the morning. He works by himself downstairs losing his psyche in the rush of customers, thinking about the shop, thinking about Minhyuck’s studies, thinking about Jaemin and Jeno’s retreat, thinking about Jisung’s request for vacation days, thinking about Chenle’s raise, thinking about the green cliffs and blue waters, thinking about the spring wind, thinking about the afternoon sun, thinking, thinking, thinking—but never dare let his mind wander to Lee Minhyung.

He lets Jisung and Chenle take over in the afternoon, taking the bus to the wholesale market in the town next door. He sits in one of the single seats near the front keeping his eyes on the window, passing through pine trees mixed into families of junipers and cedar in various shades of green, and even as they turn into the highway away from the woodlands, the image of the healthy foliage imprints itself behind his eyes. He takes his time going through his inventory list, ordering beans, and cups, and some more, before he takes the same bus back to Sunshine Town as it loops in a continuous parabola path.

It’s late evening when he returns and most of the customers have already retreated for the night. Even the artist who is always cooped up near the front windows with her computer and tablet has gone home. He thinks Minhyuck calls her Jun Noona. He says his greetings to Jisung who is mopping the floor and Chenle who is counting the register.

Renjun is there too, standing behind the coffee machine, legs crossed, the counter supporting his waist, looking thoughtful and astute with his brows scrunched in a way that makes his stomach turn. He looks at the subject of Renjun's attention and finds his mouth a little dry.

Minhyung and Minhyuck are sitting together with Minhyuck’s books spread out. He knows they’re working on Minhyuck’s math homework because his tongue only pokes out when he is concentrated on numbers and letters that shouldn’t be in math equations.

Minhyung who is next to Minhyuck hovers over him. He writes something on a scrap paper and points with the eraser end. His mouth moves and he’s saying something before circling whatever it is that is on Minhyung’s book.

Minhyuck beams and mumbles something shyly. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, just staring and wishing, unsure of what he’s looking at and unsure of what he’s wishing for until he meets Renjun’s eyes. Renjun calls out a greeting that catches the pair's attention.

He can see the moment Minhyuck panics, scrambling from his seat, gathering his books into his arms, dropping his English booklet twice in the space between the table and the stairs, before finally running upstairs as if he had been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

Minhyung avoids his eyes and he avoids it too, the argument from the morning still a fresh wound. He hears Renjun scoff before he is dragged outside to Renjun’s mini cooper parked on the curb. Every muscle has left him and for a long while, they sit in silence with the sun bidding goodbye on the darkening horizon.

“Your ex is kind of fucking hot,” Renjun says after the silence becomes stifling.

He snorts. He pushes Renjun’s arm playfully.

“Is it that obvious?”

“That’s asking if an orange is orange,” he says looking deadpanned. “But why does Minhyuck call him ‘Ahjussi?’”

He lets out the sigh he’s been holding in since the disastrous morning. He plays with his fingers, pulling at the hangnails and broken skin and replies, “It’s a long story. I don’t want to get into it.”

Renjun nods. He’s pensive which makes him nervous.

“Fair enough. From the way Minhyuck ran upstairs when he saw you, I guess you probably put it into his head that he shouldn’t get too close with his dad.”

“I didn’t _put it into his head._ Don’t say it that way…I just…made a very light suggestion. Minhyuck can do whatever he wants. I’m his father, not his warden,” he splutters looking as if he’s been accused of murder.

“You really don’t know your son. From the way you two interacted with each other just now, it probably wasn’t a clean break up. Don’t you know? Kids have a sixth sense. If you’re going to be treating your ex like an ass, obviously Minhyuck’s going to do the same in your presence," he pauses in his speech to take a breath.

"You’re his entire world. He’s not going to do something you don’t like, which by the way, is kind of an asshole move to do. The kid’s been missing his other parent for a whole ten years and you’re just going to expand the gap even more? What are you trying to do, Lee Haechan?”

He jerks Renjun’s hand off his shoulder turning his body so that they're facing each other fully and says, “I’m not doing _anything._ I just…I just don’t want Minhyuck to hurt when he leaves.”

“He’s going to hurt more when he finds out he missed the chance to get to know the father he’s never known. Just my two cents." Renjun stretches his arms above him and grimaces when he hears a pop somewhere in his back. "Anyway, if it’s over between you guys, can I get his number?”

“What do you mean _‘if’?_ It’s _been_ over. Besides, he’s married. And he has another kid.”

Renjun shrugs and replies, “That’s fine. I don’t mind being his side piece. All the rich people have one, anyway.”

* * *

After another suffocating dinner, Minhyung is whisked away by the mayor to the town hall, mumbling something about paperwork. He washes the dishes after he’s gone. The lively k-pop music video playing in the background contrasts the chaos inside his rib cage. Renjun’s words remain with him like the residues of a sticker when you rip it off after a long time. He’s so lost in his thoughts when he finally turns the faucet off, his fingers have turned into prunes shrinking into themselves.

Minhyuck has gone to bed early, unusually quiet since his return and he doesn’t have the guts to confront him just yet. He showers and hopes his thoughts run with the water into the drains but they adhere to him like unwashed body soap, making him sticky and uncomfortable. The hot shower only makes his thoughts clearer.

He brushes his teeth and blows dries his hair. It nears half-past eleven when he is done and Minhyung has yet to come back. He refuses to use the word ‘home.’ He’s a bit worry even if he doesn’t know if he has the right to feel that way but he had given Minhyung his own sets of keys that first evening so he goes to bed. 

Minhyuck is still awake when he returns to the room. He knows because his body is as stiffed as the tree trunks in the forest, going rigid upon his entrance and his arm is tucked into the comforters which contradict his habit of throwing them out into the open air in the middle of the night. He has always run a little hot and the heavy sheets always make him unknowingly restless. He pulls the futon out, laying the sheets down, and as he does, he considers the words he’s about to say.

He stares into the ceiling where specks of neon green stare back. He had stuck those stickers on with Minhyuck years ago when Minhyuck was 5 and began his obsession with the stars, and the moon and everything related to the constellations only to lose his interest a few days in. It had been fun though, with him climbing onto the chair and Minhyuck in his arms as his little hands pressed the shapes into the white ceiling. That seemed like just yesterday.

“Minhyuck-ah,” he calls.

Minhyuck chooses not to acknowledge his voice. He keeps up his façade and he wonders if it’s because he’s expecting a scolding for what he had done behind his back during his absence in the afternoon.

“Mark Ahjussi is nice, right?”

The strict quiet extends into the air.

“Mark Ahjussi is a nice person so Appa won’t be angry if you want to be friends with him. But promise me you won’t be sad when Mark Ahjussi returns to Seoul.”

He shifts, drawing the laundered comforter into him and they smell like fresh earth just moments after the rain has gone. Minhyuck’s silhouette seems so small and tiny now as if he is five again and begging to sleep with him because the dark scares him. That had been part of the reason why they had put up the stickers too. Minhyuck’s body relaxes like a deflated balloon. And even though he doesn’t respond to his words, he knows they have been heard. 


	11. Chapter 11

That next morning, Jeju-do’s usual blues give way to an overcast that hangs over the island like a grey curtain hindering the cerulean secrets behind it. The air is moist and wet and when Donghyuck breathes in the muggy droplets, he tastes dirt and grass behind his throat, in that damp way the air gets just before a storm.

He collects the laundry from the balcony, pinching off Minhyuck’s t-shirts and pants and socks from where it hangs on the metal bars above him with the colorful pins following the same path to the bucket next to his wilted tomato plant.

When he’s done, he goes to the kitchen to pull side dishes from the fridge. Then, he portions them onto smaller plates to arrange them into an arc on the dining table. His green pan sitting on the stovetop sizzles with oil. Droplets bounce from the slightly browned and scratched edges, evidence of Minhyung’s science experiment.

It is seven in the morning and Lee Donghyuck is on a mission. He’s cutting the omelet into smaller bite-sized pieces when Minhyuck comes out, half of his mind still in the last vestiges of his dreams. The sleeves of his purple shirt fall to his elbow when he brings his hands up to rub his eyes. He gives Donghyuck his morning greeting, his eyes becoming saucers when Donghyuck tells him to wake Minhyung up for breakfast.

It takes him a moment to knock on the door even after Donghyuck’s permission and when he finally finds his determination, the door opens, and Minhyuck’s unsteady figure falls into the sudden space tumbling into Minhyung’s fast reflexes.

They convene around the table in their usual position. No one dares to pick up their bowl and chopsticks. Renjun’s voice swims like a fish in the Yellow Sea through the fissures and lobes of his brain accompanying his own words to Minhyuck.

He clears his throat. Minhyuck flinches and Minhyung swallows and in another life, in another time, it might have been because of something as superficial as waking Donghyuck up early or breaking Donghyuck’s favorite cup or staying up past midnight watching cartoons and American T.V. shows—something domestic and banal.

He picks up a piece of the thinly sliced omelette, places it on Minhyuck’s bowl. Then he repeats the action to put another piece on Minhyung’s bowl. When even that doesn’t break them from their catatonic states, Donghyuck lets out a pout, lips jutting out like he is one of Minhyuck’s classmates. He crosses his arms and says, “Yah, is my food that bad?”

As if a switch has been flipped, Minhyuck jumps from his seat with vigor. He jabs the omelet into his mouth and in between bites, he says, “No! I love Appa’s food!”

The ardor and devotion in his voice make Donghyuck’s stomach flutter in a way that is like seeing your dreams manifest into reality. He looks at Minhyung who looks at him back and Donghyuck watches his long pale fingers, the almost slow-motion movement of the wooden chopsticks and the pink tongue that reveals itself when he puts the omelet into his mouth. Donghyuck stares. He doesn’t try to hide it. There’s no use, not when Minhyung has that glint in his eyes that shows he’s been caught.

“Thank you, Haechan-ssi. It’s delicious.”

Somehow the words come out more perverse than the actual meaning behind it. He feels like an exhibitionist; like he’s been caught having sex in public but he can’t find it in himself to feel embarrassed when all the shame has left his body the moment he’d chosen to partake in the act. It’s Minhyung’s ring that brings him back to reality, the platinum band an ever-blinking red light in his visions.

They engage in small talk where they talk about the weather and the air and the grey sky. Everyone is still shy from the sudden change of dynamics but even then, it is an improvement from the last two days. Minhyuck leaves for school just as the grey skies begin their departure westward. He skips downstairs in a good mood and tackles Sanha who'd come to pick him up on his bike. Donghyuck watches him go until his black book bag and Sanha’s orange hat disappears from the road.

He returns upstairs to find Minhyung washing the dishes, a pile steadying piling up at the side waiting to be dried. Donghyuck, without words, pilfers the tattered cloth hanging on a small nail by the wall. Then he takes one of the clean dishes, wipes it dry, before he places it back on the rack. They don’t talk about the weather or the air or the grey sky now that Minhyuck is gone and there is no need to keep up pretenses. Still, the hush silence is peaceful and slow, giving way to a shift of energy between them.

* * *

Donghyuck fears the rain the way acrophobes fear height and thalassophobes fear the sea. Every life-changing event in his life had followed the rain—his birth, the accident, and the night he’d left Seoul, it had rained too, incessantly and mercilessly, beating onto the roof of Minhyung’s car patterning his rampaging heart. When the rain infected the sky and it festers in the air like a diseased wound, it would douse all the happiness he had. It seems almost prophetic when he thinks about it.

Because God has never been on his side, the rain returns in the late afternoon as aggressive as the beginnings of a hurricane and the cascade of raindrops that hit the roof imitate gunshots in the air. They scatter onto the ground, spilling into the cracks and fractures of the road, before feeding into the dirt on the side. He watch as the branches fight against the power of nature before succumbing to let the wind drag it from one pole to the next like flags violently fluttering in the air.

The café is packed with guests who are all avoiding the storm. When all the seats have been filled, he finds that some customers have been forced to stand in whatever corner they can find. The rain continues even as Minhyuck’s dismissal approaches. He nibbles on the skin of his lips as he stares into the wild weather. He’s clutching Minhyuck’s umbrella in his hand. In his excitement, Minhyuck had left it sitting in the bucket by the door.

“I’ll go. It’s dangerous outside,” Minhyung says just as he makes a move to weather the storm even if the pattering of the droplets have already begun to exacerbate the drumming of his chest.

Minhyung looks exceptionally handsome today in his grey hoodie and black jeans, for some strange reason he cannot pinpoint. 

“You don’t know where his school is.”

Minhyung is already moving, grabbing the small blue umbrella from his hand and opening his own. He opens the door and a strong gust of wind breaches the shop, ravaging the ringing bell above them.

“I passed by it when I went to the town hall. Don’t worry, I’ll bring Minhyuck back. Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.”

He’s gone before Donghyuck has the chance to convey his gratitude. He watches him go, the violent water from the fat clouds showering Minhyung’s shielded figure. In the torrent, in the wind, and in the rare monochromatic vibe of Jeju-do birthed from the storm, Minhyung’s red umbrella stands vibrantly on the long flat path, a vivid photograph in his mind.

* * *

By the next morning, the downpour vacates Jeju-do, disintegrating into the ozone. The sun makes its grand come back when dawn breaks. Yesterday’s turmoil and strife all seem like a dream.

The creek that runs along the path to school has been flooded from last night’s trauma. In it, he sees the floating stray strands of leaves blown from their home mixed with pebbles and small rocks. They drift downwards, bobbing above the clear water in an oriented fashion passing Minhyuck and Minhyung’s figure ahead of him.

It had been Minhyuck’s idea for the three of them to go to school. After Minhyung had picked him up yesterday, Minhyuck had not stopped talking about showing him all the fun things along the way when the weather clears up instead of the rushed journey they had taken due to the storm.

Minhyuck’s hair has grown curling into themselves at the ends and the base of his neck having taken after Donghyuck’s baby qualities. He stands up to Minhyung’s elbow and his skin is just as pale as the white sands of Jeju-do’s beaches despite the sun’s best attempts.

Today, Minhyung is wearing a black long sleeve shirt and dark blue jeans. The ends of his blue cardigan flutter like butterfly wings in the morning breeze. On his head is a New York Yankees cap. He looks like a college student on a foreign exchange program.

The two of them are holding hands and discussing music and even though he is a few meters behind them, he can still hear Minhyuck’s excited chatters and Minhyung’s genuine enthusiastic replies.

“Ahjussi, can you play any instruments?”

“Ahjussi can play the guitar. What about Minhyuck?”

Minhyuck gives an excited skip and swings their attached hands to the sky. He looks as if Minhyung had told him the biggest secret in the world.

“Wow, Ahjussi, you’re really cool! They don’t teach us at school but I’ve seen people on T.V. play the guitar before. Do you know ‘Naruto’? Do you know how to play ‘Naruto,’ songs?” he says, each word faster than the one before it. Minhyung shakes his head solemnly and replies with the seriousness of someone who is the head of a conglomerate, “I don’t know ‘Naruto,’ but maybe you can show Ahjussi later.”

Minhyuck is disappointed but he is quick to recover, tip-toeing to pat Minhyung on the shoulder and he says, “’Naruto,’ is the best anime ever! Do you want to watch it with me tonight?”

“Sure, but you have to finish your homework first, or else your Appa will be mad at Ahjussi.”

“Appa won’t be mad. Appa likes Mark Ahjussi. Last night, he said Mark Ahjussi is a nice person.”

“Did he?”

He chokes on air, refusing to look at the hubristic expression Minhyung is wearing and says with the tips of his ears red, “Lee Minhyuck, why are you so chatty today?”

They reach the entrance of the school just as Minhyuck is about to comment on his blush which has spread from his ears to his cheeks. He is (thankfully) dragged into the building by his teacher and after he waves goodbye, they begin the walk back to the shop. He walks ahead of Minhyung, almost sprinting to put as much distance between them as possible.

He is oddly shy after Minhyuck’s exposure and it almost feels like he had been the one confessing instead. The wind blows against him, cold on his skin, the remnants of yesterday’s war, and he shivers, hiding his hands behind his long but thin sleeves. He hugs himself. When the wind blows again, he feels the frigidity for a mere moment until warmth shadows him. 

  
“Minhyuck is important but you should take care of your body too, Haechan-ssi.”

Minhyung doesn’t spare him a glance when he walks ahead to surpass him. On this almost empty road where it feels like they are the only two people in the world, Donghyuck bathes in the heat of Minhyung’s cardigan. It smells familiar like a place he has not visited in a long time and a memory he thought he has forgotten. Even though there is no red umbrella and no rain, Minhyung’s back stands as vivid as ever.

He puts the cardigan on, much too large on his body. Even though they are nearly the same height, Minhyung’s shoulders have always been broader than his. He feels like he is in high school again, stealing Minhyung’s clothes and sleeping in Minhyung’s bed so that he would smell like him for the entire day.

He follows Minhyung home.

* * *

That night, Minhyung helps Minhyuck with his homework. After they are done, they watch ‘Naruto’ in the living room sofa on Minhyung’s laptop, perched on Minhyuck’s lap tilted at an angle so that they are sharing the small screen. Seven and a half episodes in, Donghyuck calls them for dinner and it takes him three tries before they haul themselves to the table.

They’re still talking about the latest episode even as he piles Minhyuck’s bowl with food. Naturally, he picks the carrots out and Donghyuck half expects him to put it into his bowl like he always does with the foods he doesn’t like until his chopsticks move into the direction of Minhyung’s bowl. The orange slices gather into a mini mountain until it covers all the rice in Minhyung’s bowl, until the only thing he is eating are carrots.

Donghyuck doesn’t think Minhyuck is fully aware of his actions, too engaged in his character dissertation of whoever ‘Kakashi,’ is. Minhyung doesn’t acknowledge it either, simply putting the carrots into his mouth as if Minhyuck’s words have entranced him. Donghyuck doesn’t have the heart to stop either of them and when he saves a pile of meat for Minhyung, he reasons it as being a good host.

It all feels very domestic and Donghyuck wonders if he had stayed, would he have had the luxury to experience this kind of scenery every night?

* * *

The camphor tree in front of the building looks strangely naked with bare spots in places where tree blades use to colonize, though he knows it will regrow into itself before the summer hits. That’s the amazing thing about nature, he thinks. No matter the severity of the damage or the passage of time, it will always return like a boomerang. It might take a while but nature will always find its way home.

Minhyung is smoking again on the balcony. When he brings the edge of the cigarette to his lips, his t-shirt rises revealing the ends of a tattoo just above his hip bone. The black ink bleeds into the pale skin, a striking contrast in the artificial lights. The shirt falls too fast for him to make out the shape of the tattoo and he wonders why he hadn't noticed it before.

He joins him in the clouds of smoke and he should find the fumes grating but in a way, it is also comforting, hiding the bald areas of the camphor tree and masking his vision so that everything falls into that dreamy, billowy mist.

“Haechan-ssi, do you think love and hate are mutually exclusive of one another?”

The familiar words glide into the white vapors around them. He breathes in the words.

“Isn’t that it?” he repeats Minhyung’s words back.

Minhyung doesn’t respond and he doesn’t explain. Instead, he thinks of the Minhyung in front of him. The Minhyung who is 30 years old. The Minhyung who calls himself ‘Mark.’ The Minhyung who smokes and has a tattoo.

Not the Minhyung he misses but the Minhyung he has missed.


	12. Chapter 12

The consistent sunny days following that stormy night breaks over Jeju-do in a brilliant spell of cloudless skies and soft breezes. That weekend, they borrow bikes from Mr. and Mrs. Wong to explore the canola fields behind Sunshine Town. Minhyuck rides with Minhyung, standing on the pegs of the bike with his hands on Minhyung’s shoulders. He’s shouting into the air, his calls carrying into the sky. Minhyung shouts with him.

Donghyuck feels both young and old when he looks at the pair, Minhyuck’s yellow t-shirt distinct against the blue backdrop, Minhyung’s deep green plaid shirt drifting behind him like a cape, and their matching black hair dancing in the speed of the wind.

They pass the rows of short tanned houses where vine crops hang from wooden sticks, through the valleys between the small forests of pine trees and the petite unnamed mountains elevated on the borders. The road meanders in a smooth paved path into a clearing with a humble waterfall only as tall as Donghyuck. That clearing breaks into a yellow field that serves as Sunshine Town’s back yard.

The golden rapeseeds conquer the land spanning almost two football fields in perimeter. They infest Donghyuck’s vision until he is still seeing yellow even as he looks away into the mounds in the distance. This yellow ocean dotted with specks of green rose to their chest. Donghyuck breathes in the sweet aroma that is unique to the canolas. Minhyuck loses himself in the field, his yellow t-shirt blending into the meadow, becoming a mere flower on the horizon. Their bikes have been abandoned into the road. Minhyung sits with him on the nearby wooden bench.

“You raised him well,” Minhyung says. He leans back, looks up, his hands supporting his weight. Donghyuck looks with him. His eyes are trained on the contrails left behind by the airplanes. They draw an unknown picture into the blue background. Every cloud is a letter from the sky, every curve, every shape a message.

“Thank you,” he replies. Thank you for having chosen me to love, thank you for having given me something so precious, thank you for having given me Minhyuck—a million words hidden beneath two syllables of which he finds himself struggling to say, as if gratitude alone can mask his regrets.

“Do you miss his father?”

The contrails have dissipated in the high humidity and hot weather and the sky returns to its blues. There is no evidence of a plane ever having passed the same way there is no evidence of a Lee Donghyuck ever in Lee Minhyung’s life. He imitates Minhyung’s position, leans onto his hands, and says, “More than miss, I feel apologetic towards him. I betrayed him when he needed me the most and left with the only thing he had.”

Minhyung hums. From afar, they hear Minhyuck’s elated high pitched screeches exude from the field. He asks, “If you can go back in time, would you do the same thing?”

”…I wouldn’t,” Donghyuck replies and the honest answer surprises him too. In front of Jaemin, in front of Jeno, in front of the rest of the world, he can lie and say he would do the same but in front of Minhyung, he thinks he has hurt him more than enough in this lifetime.

It is only right to give him the truth even if Minhyung doesn’t know the importance of it and he continues, “I would have stayed by his side the way he wanted me to. But hindsight is 20/20. The me now isn’t the me then,” he trails, voice becoming soft enough, the wind almost carries it away. “…and that person…that person isn’t the person he used to be either. It feels a bit juvenile to think about regret and what-ifs at our age, don’t you think so?”

He looks at Minhyung, sees the way Minhyung ponders his answer, and he controls the urge to brush the stray hair that has fallen above his eye. Minhyung replies, “I…I don’t think regret is something that can be crippled with age. I think it only gets more prominent as you get older.”

“Do you have a lot of regrets, Mark-ssi?”

“Rather than regrets, I find myself struggling with the lost memories the most.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Do you still love him, Haechan-ssi?”

Do you think to breathe when you wake? Or to control the beat of your heart? When you walk, is it an active conscious action? Do you count the times you blink in a day? What of the breaths you take with the moments you experience? What about now? Are you aware of your existence? That is how he loved Lee Minhyung, and that is how he loves Lee Minhyung.

The May heat burns on his skin. He grabs his bike and calls for Minhyuck.

“We should head back.”

* * *

They’ve fallen into a routine of sorts in the following days. Donghyuck wakes at seven to prepare breakfast and Minhyuck wakes at seven-fifteen to wake Minhyung at seven seventeen. After breakfast, they accompany Minhyuck to school, and on the way back, they discuss lunch and dinner meals. When Minhyung isn’t whisked away by the mayor, he accompanies Donghyuck grocery shopping along the market streets, and the villagers would tease them with knowing looks in their eyes.

In the afternoons, Minhyung does his paperwork by the window where the light shines the brightest. Donghyuck sits with him sipping on lemon tea until the sun sets in orange and pink. At nights, Minhyung helps Minhyuck with his homework until dinner. Then, they sit around the table to listen to Minhyuck's detailed day. After, Minhyung cleans the dishes and Donghyuck dries them to put on the rack. When Minhyuck has fallen asleep, they sit by the balcony with beers in their hands, smoke clouding their vision and mind to discuss the mysteries of the world. On Sundays, when Minhyuck has gone to Sanha’s house, they spend the afternoon at the green cliff staring into the vast space between the water and the rocks. The sun has fallen in love with the islands and Jeju-do remains fine and hot. The rain never visits again since that wretched storm.

These days, nothing feels real to Donghyuck—not the sun, not the wind, not the morning ring of his alarm, not the sizzling of the pan, not the road they take to school, not the drinks they’ve consumed, not the smokes from Minhyung’s cigarettes, not the green cliffs, not the blue waters, not Minhyuck’s laughter, not Minhyung’s reciprocation, not Minhyung’s kind gaze, not Minhyung’s soft voice, and not Minhyung’s unchanging presence.

His father used to say: in the green forests, there are wild deers; in the deep ocean blues, there are colossal whales; and in his dreams, there is Donghyuck’s mom. For Donghyuck, there are no deers in his misty forests, no whales in his surging seas, and certainly, no Lee Minhyung in his empty dreams.

But here he is now, his physical existence becoming a constant in Donghyuck and Minhyuck’s lives. He is there in the corner of Donghyuck’s eyes when he cooks; he is there by his favorite table when Donghyuck works; he is there in front of Donghyuck on the paved road when they take Minhyuck to school; he is there in the haze of the bathroom when he comes out of the shower; he is there in Donghyuck’s apartment when he wakes unshaved and disoriented from sleep; he is there on the balcony with his cigarettes and his tattoo; he is there in the cedar forests, in the canola fields, in the market streets, in the coffee shop, by the green cliffs, in the rain, in the sunrises, in the sunsets, in his eyes—tangible and real and not a vision of his broken mind. 

In the bathroom, there are three toothbrushes and three towels. Minhyung’s razor and shaving cream sits next to the tube of toothpaste and bottles of lotions. In the kitchen, there are three cups—Donghyuck’s plain white mug, Minhyuck’s Naruto cup, and Minhyung’s blue cup pilfered from the shop’s stash. In the shop downstairs, Minhyung’s papers and laptop lay scattered in an organized mess. Hanging on the metal bar and the clothing lines, there are Minhyung’s hoodies and t-shirts and pants and socks and boxers mixed into Donghyuck and Minhyuck’s own. By the balcony, there is a black ashtray with remnants of Minhyung’s cigarettes.

Donghyuck feels like a thief who has gotten away with the crime. He’s living a life that is not meant to be his, enjoying moments he has no right to, and ensnaring a dream that is not for him to chase.

Donghyuck wonders if he can be selfish one more time.

* * *

On one particularly hot night, Minhyung borrows Mr. Park's guitar. They’ve transformed the living room into a mini-concert hall, liberating the fairy lights from the cardboard box in the basement where Donghyuck stores all the Christmas decorations and other knick-knacks. Right now, the living room space is bathed in a tender warm glow like the room has been invaded by a thousand fireflies. The windows are opened. The fan in the corner of the room blows the evening May heat into the house.

They’re all sitting on the glazed and cool floor, wearing pajamas—comfortable t-shirts, and soft cotton pants that do nothing to alleviate nor fend the hot air. Even so, Minhyuck leans into Minhyung’s side as he strums the guitar to no specific tune. He’s staring with rapture, all his senses focused on Minhyung and the guitar in his arms. The sound bounces around their small apartment, mingling with the heat and the lights and the repetitive motions of Minhyung’s fingers. Donghyuck leans into the front of the couch. He hugs his legs to his chest.

He hums to the melody. He is 10 and Minhyung is 13. It is summer. They are in Minhyung’s room. He sees the large bed and blue sheets and the white curtains and warm light. He’s sitting next to Minhyung, his arms sticking to Minhyung’s in that uncomfortable sweaty way. Minhyung’s hair tickles his skin where Donghyuck’s head has claimed territory of his shoulder. The strums of the guitar echoes inside his mind. He hears Minhyung call his name. He sleeps. He wakes. He is 27 again.

Minhyuck grabs his hand, pulls him onto the table. He dances with Minhyuck in his arms, a silly and unarranged choreography. Minhyuck laughs, his happiness filling the spaces, as evident as the lights that resemble lanterns. They dance with them, following their every step and every swing of their arm. Minhyung continues to play.

And Donghyuck continues to dance.

* * *

Minhyung wakes him in the early morning sometime between four and five. Donghyuck is disoriented enough he wraps his arms around Minhyung’s neck, pulling him in just from muscle memory. He’s warm against Donghyuck’s body. His hair tickles Donghyuck’s face. Donghyuck takes a deep breath. Minhyung smells like him from the body wash and shampoo they’ve been sharing since his arrival.

He comes to his senses, pushing Minhyung away as if he’s been electrified. He’s paralyzed and flabbergasted enough he can’t find it in himself to blush. Minhyung, on the other hand, looks as if someone had taken a brush and painted him red. He’s in the same position he’s landed in when Donghyuck pushed him away with his legs spread, arms supporting his back, face like the rising sun.

He’s dressed in his usual suit again—clean white shirt, stiff blazer, and tailored pants. His hair is styled too, running from his forehead, revealing his sharp features. Minhyuck is still sleeping, unaware of the rest of the world. Donghyuck pulls the blanket to himself like a shy virgin though he’s not sure what he is covering.

He whisper-shouts to a dazed Minhyung, “What the _hell_ are you _doing?_ ”

Minhyung brings a hand up to hide the bottom half of his face. Donghyuck throws the blanket down. He crawls to Minhyung who backs away like a scared animal.

“I asked you, Lee Mark-ssi, what are you doing in my room at ass o’clock?”

“Sorry, Haechan-ssi. Something urgent came up and I have to return to Seoul. I didn’t want to leave without saying anything. I’m sorry if I, um, startled you,” Minhyung mumbles, the red returning to his face, though Donghyuck is too focused on his answer to notice. He feels his stomach clench the way it does when he's waiting at the doctor's for a report.

“What? Will…will you be back?” he asks, unable to control his mouth. 

Minhyung expression softens. His hand falls to reveal a small smile. He says, “In three days. Is there anything you’d like me to bring back from Seoul?”

There is but it’s not something Donghyuck will ever voice aloud in this lifetime. He shakes his head and says, “Have a safe trip.”

Minhyung looks like he wants to say something. Donghyuck looks away. He returns to his futon, throwing the cover over his head. He hears footsteps. Then, the door closes.

Donghyuck stays awake for the rest of the morning.

* * *

In the morning, faced with the hollow emptiness of Minhyung's room, Minhyuck cries. He is devastated. He is inconsolable and Minhyuck has never been the type to whine or cry or beg, but here he is, in Donghyuck’s arms, shedding fat tears and sticky snot into Donghyuck’s wet t-shirt. He calls for ‘Mark Ahjussi’ in between breaths. Every cry carves crevices in Donghyuck’s chest. Against Donghyuck’s better judgment, he searches Minhyung’s name on Twitter. 

**Family Goals! Mr. (30) and Mrs. Lee (30) of Lee Conglomerate Spotted at Son’s (8) Piano Recital!**

**Lee Minhyung (30) of Lee Conglomerate Spends Day with Family at Lotte World for Son’s 8 th Birthday! **

**[click here for more pictures]**

_“No matter what, I, Lee Minhyung will always choose you, Lee Donghyuck.”_

Donghyuck draws Minhyuck into his arms.

Outside, it begins to rain.


	13. Chapter 13

The rain pours in the relentless way it does. Donghyuck thinks if the rain were to be described in the cognitive sense, its star sign would be a Leo. When the rain comes, it makes sure everyone knows of its arrival through the loud drums against rooftops and concrete and skin until it becomes the only thing anyone is talking about. Look at the rain, they’ll say. Look at the sky, when did it begin, when will it stop? 

It is Sunday and the café is closed. Donghyuck tucks Minhyuck in after he’s cried himself to sleep. He wipes the tear tracks from Minhyuck’s red eyes and hopes when he wakes, it will not be too swollen. It’s almost eight when he starts on the weekly house chores but he feels like he has exhausted all his energy trying to soothe Minhyuck. The house is quiet without Minhyuck’s quick chattering and Minhyung’s eager replies. It feels bigger too in the way it has never been.

The jarring contrast makes him pensive. He ruminates the strange ties of relationships. Some people, even though you haven’t known them for long, just spending a few days with them can make you feel like you’ve known them for a lifetime. For others, no matter how long you’ve known them for, if they refuse to let you breach their walls, they will always be strangers to you.

The 30-year-old Lee Minhyung feels both familiar and foreign. How strange almost two weeks of domesticity with Minhyung has dismantled everything he has worked for in the last 10 years. Donghyuck wonders if it speaks of his weakness or Minhyung’s capability.

He folds laundry in the living room. The fairy lights are still plugged into the outlet. In the morning, the lights look faded and not as vivid, less dazzling, and less radiant. He’s already beginning to forget the warmth it had emanated and the golden glow that had manifested in the apartment last night.

He hadn’t realized it when Minhyung was here but he misses this quiet simplicity. With Minhyung’s absence, he doesn’t need to second guess himself. There’s no need to be careful with the words he says or the information he gives. Above all, he can roam the house without being attuned to Minhyung’s every movement and every position.

This is fine, he tells himself. He’s lived without Lee Minhyung for the last 10 years. He can live another three days without him. And when he’s truly gone, away from Sunshine Town, away from Jeju-do, away from Donghyuck and Minhyuck’s lives to return to his expensive suits and fancy cars and picture-perfect family, Donghyuck will let him go.

Maybe letting go are the wrong words. ‘To let,’ implies Minhyung will need permission, which Donghyuck has no right to give or take. He’s in no position in Minhyung’s life to do that anymore. Minhyung will go with or without his approval. Acknowledging the clear lines of their new relationship steadies Donghyuck. It’s like sky diving he thinks. Just because you’re freefalling doesn’t mean you’re a bird.

There’s no reason to be upset when he doesn’t have the right to.

* * *

The first day without Minhyung passes quietly. Donghyuck takes Minhyuck to school Monday morning. The rain had continued the entire night but by early morning had dwindled to a drizzle, dawdling in the air, and by late afternoon, it dissipates into the sky. The sun, however, remains hidden.

He’s stocking the cabinets when he feels arms snake around his waist. For a split second, he’s in Busan again. He sees the nest by the window, the orange strips of the sky, Minhyung’s naked chest against his skin. The package of cup sleeves slips from his hand, scattering onto the floor like fallen petals in autumn. He’s trembling.

“Shit, sorry. Did I scare you?”

Donghyuck turns to Yukhei. His hair is shorter and darker. It is a stark contrast from the platinum blond he’d been sporting last December when he’d been home for winter break. He’s wearing an all-black ensemble with white sneakers. When he raises his hand to cup Donghyuck’s cheek, the bright light catches the silver beaded bracelet on his hand. It had been a handmade gift from Donghyuck some years ago when Renjun had dragged him to an event in the neighboring town. He’d wanted to throw the bracelet away from how poorly made it is but had given it to Yukhei after his continuous begging.

  
His last visit had been six months ago. Though, the Yukhei standing in front of him seemed to have mature in the time away. To Donghyuck, Yukhei has always been the dependable older brother. Even given his obvious feelings. He reckons he wouldn’t have made it through the pregnancy without Yukhei there to accompanied him on the lonely afternoons, the quiet nights, and all the intimidating doctor’s appointments. Currently, he ventures between the town and Seoul, where he’d pursued his medical education.

“Welcome back, Dr. Wong,” Donghyuck says bringing his arms around Yukhei’s neck. Yukhei bends slightly to receive the embrace, wrapping his arms around his waist. Donghyuck tries not to think about the last time he'd been in this position only a mere 24 hours ago.

“There’s something so erotic about you calling me that, Lee Haechan,” Yukhei responds with a smirk. He crouches down to pick up the fallen cup sleeves. Donghyuck helps him and when all the sleeves have found their home on the counter, he turns to poke Yukhei in the chest.

“This is the first time we’re seeing each other in six months and that’s what you choose to say to me? Do these pickup lines work with the girls and boys in Seoul?”

Yukhei catches his hand and he leans into Donghyuck’s space.

“Why? What if it does? Does it make you jealous?”

“In your dreams, Wong Yukhei.”

The smirk on Yukhei’s face softens into a sad smile and Donghyuck wonders if he should’ve played along just to indulge an old friend.

“Yeah, in my dreams,” he whispers, lacing their fingers together. “Let’s take a walk. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

* * *

Given the weather, the shore is empty. The usual clear blues of the strait have transformed into shades of deep green accented by white foams with the violent waves calming to a slow rock. The water grabs at the land with every ebb and flow. It is almost ominous in its attempt to drag pieces of the land into its dark depths.  
  


Donghyuck wriggles his bare feet in the fine white sand. The dampness from the rain squeezes in between his toes. It sticks in between all the ridges and crevices. One of his hands is holding onto his shoes while the other has been commandeered by Yukhei.

In the beginning, he hadn’t felt comfortable. He’d been overwhelmed with guilt just at the thought. Over time, however, he makes peace with his feelings. The physical warmth and heat of another body give hims a reassurance that is different from words. 

They sit by the rocks away from the water. The sky is a blank canvas—not blue but not grey either. There is something sad about being in the middle, Donghyuck thinks. Not one or the other, wandering in no specific direction. Yukhei squeezes his limp hand.

“My parents are moving back to Hong Kong,” he begins. “Sunshine Town is nice but it’s not home for them.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not staying either. I grew up here but with my parents gone, there is nothing tying me to this town anymore. I recently accepted a position at SNU Hospital and I’m thinking of moving to Seoul permanently. I…I would like it if you can come with me. You and Minhyuck. I found a good apartment in a good neighborhood. There’s a bus stop right in front of the building and a park five minutes away. I’ve considered the schools there too. The kids and families there are nice people. It’s a good neighborhood to raise a child.”

Donghyuck lays his head on Yukhei’s shoulder. The water runs back and forth on the line between land and ocean. Again, and again it goes like a choreographed symphony, taking more and more with it each time.

He’s aware of the grip Yukhei has on his hand. He’s sweaty, a sign of Yukhei’s nervousness and Donghyuck is surprised he is uttering his words without stuttering. Is that the thing about the truth, he wonders. If certain words are meant to be said, it will be said. 

“I know you don’t like me that way but I can’t imagine a life without you, Lee Haechan. I have lost from the moment you stepped into Sunshine Town. I grew up with you and have watched you grown. I think of Minhyuck as my kid. And I think of you as my person. Since we’ve met, I’ve confessed to you nine times. That’s once every year. This is the tenth and the last. Don’t give me an answer right now. I just want you to sleep on it. I’ll be leaving next week and you can give me your answer then. If the answer is no, then I will let you go. But…but if there’s even a little bit of me in your heart, if there exists even 0.01% of something happening between us, I want to take that chance with you. I don’t need you to love me deeply. I don’t need you to love me at all. I just…I just want to stay by your side. I want to take care of Minhyuck. I want to take care of you.”

Donghyuck is 15. He is on the roof. There are fireworks in the sky, blazing red and fiery orange. _Be mine, Lee Donghyuck,_ he hears. Yukhei has just given him the confession of the century and he is thinking of Lee Minhyung. Yukhei is holding onto his hand and he is thinking of Lee Minhyung’s embrace. Yukhei is asking for his permission to stay by his side unconditionally, unboundedly, and yet, in his head, there is Lee Minhyung's voice. 

“Are the people in Seoul that bad you’re still thinking of me, Wong Yukhei?”

Yukhei shakes his head. He says, “They’re not bad…they’re just not you.”

Donghyuck releases his hands. He pulls his sweater to himself. They sit there for a long time just watching the waters. It is only after they begin the long way home does he realize he is wearing Minhyung’s blue cardigan.

* * *

Minhyuck has decided to stay at Sanha’s house to nurse his sadness with a night of anime run despite there being school tomorrow and Donghyuck had given in, not wanting to disappoint Minhyuck after yesterday’s fiasco.

He’s flipping vegetable jeon in the kitchen when his phone rings. He passes the spatula to Yukhei who is plating the side dishes on the table. He walks to the balcony, closing the door behind him. His elbows rest on the rails separating him from 10 feet of space. He doesn’t let Jaemin speak when he picks up the call. Instead, he forgoes the greetings altogether, and he spits, “Did you know?” choosing not to elaborate when the subject is clear enough. The pause that comes from the phone is too long for Jaemin’s denial to be anything but lies.

“I’m not going to ask why you thought it was a good idea to blindside me like that, Na Jaemin because I know you’ll only give me excuses. I just…” his voice trails. He focuses on Yeosu’s lights. Today, because there is no smoke, he sees it clear in his field of vision. “Does Ahjumma know?” he settles.

He receives another pause that is longer than the first. Then Jaemin says, “Ahjumma passed away last September. Minhyung Hyung…he…he decided to keep it from the news. It was around the time the company was signing another contract with that American brand and he didn’t want it to affect the stocks.”

Yeosu’s lights fade. The branches of the camphor tree in front of him seemed to have stopped moving. It feels like the entire world has stopped as if someone had taken a remote and pressed paused leaving him inside that television screen, stuck in that one horrible moment. He’s shaking. His fingers have morphed to become one with the steel bars of the banister. He thinks he might fall off the edge if he lets go.

“I don’t care what Lee Minhyung does. What about me? You didn’t think it was important enough to tell me, Jaemin?”

“I’m sorry, Donghyuck. I thought it was for the best. You just had so much on your plate at that time with Minhyuck, with the coffee shop, with everything I thought…well, with what she’s done to you, I didn’t think…I didn’t think you’ll care.”

  
“She was half my mother, Jaemin! I…before everything she’s done…she was still…she was still…”

He doesn't have the strength to finish his sentence. It disappear into the air. The world turns. His legs give in to the ground. His body meets the dirty tiles. The phone slides from his grip. The screen cracks from the fall. A thin line separates Jaemin’s name. The screen turns black. Then it lights up. Again, and again, and again.

Donghyuck ignores it. He curls into himself. He put his hands to his ears. The door slides open. Yukhei scoops him into his lap. He is held like glass. He is 8 again and he is inside that empty funeral hall with his father’s dead cold corpse. He hears the bad thoughts, the strange buzzing unique to a silent room, the erratic cadence of his heart pulsing against his rib cage. But the embrace is all wrong, the smell is all wrong, and the soothing voice in his ear is all wrong. The door slides open again. He is ripped away from Yukhei.

He falls into Minhyung’s chest. Even without opening his eyes, he knows it is Lee Minhyung. Lee Minhyung’s embrace, Lee Minhyung’s scent, Lee Minhyung’s touch. He doesn’t know why Minhyung has come home early. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if Yukhei is watching. He doesn’t care if Minhyung has Eunji. He doesn’t care if Minhyung has another family. He doesn’t care if Minhyung has forgotten.

“Hyung, Hyung, Minhyung Hyung,” he repeats into the nape of Minhyung’s neck.

His sorrowful calls echo into the May air.


	14. Chapter 14

The first thing Donghyuck sees when he opens his eyes is the family portrait Minhyuck made for him some years ago for Father’s Day. It’s attached to the yellowing walls with clear tapes of which the edges curl into themselves from age and time. Just below the crayon drawing is a wooden picture frame and inside the frame, there is Donghyuck, 18, face flushed, in a white hospital gown hours post C-section. In his arm is a sleeping Minhyuck wrapped in a blue blanket, just barely one day old.

The moonlight that trickles in from the open window cuts a direct path to the mahogany dresser so that even if the rest of the room is thrown into the dark abyss, this picture will always be visible regardless of the time of the day. Donghyuck wonders if this is what Minhyung sees every morning when he wakes in this foreign town, in this foreign house, with this strange family away from his golds and riches hundreds of miles away in Seoul.

He’d blacked out in Minhyung’s arms from exhaustion and trauma. He’s not sure what time it is or if Yukhei had gone home after his breakdown or if Minhyung is questioning his sanity. The overwhelming smell of Minhyung’s spice surrounding him is enough to distract him from these thoughts. The pillow under his head, the sheets on his body, and the embrace Minhyung had given him lingers on his skin. It remains like a fresh tattoo. He wants to live in a bubble so that the places Minhyung has touched stays with him until his flesh rots away.

He wants to be 8 again. He wants Minhyung to spoil and coddle him the way he did when they were kids. He wants to go back to that place to that time where Minhyung held him during the scary nights, stroke his hair like he was something precious, and looked at him like he was worthy of his gaze. He feels it when he closes his eyes. He digs his nose into Minhyung’s pillow, breathes in the heady scent, and holds himself just like Minhyung did maybe minutes or hours ago on that hot balcony.

Why did he do that? Why did he hold Donghyuck? Why did he come back early? Why did Jaemin lie to him? Why did they keep Ahjumma’s death from him? How did the peaceful days come to this point?

He hugs his knees to his chest, holds them against his reeling heart, and bites into Minhyung’s pillow to curb his whimpers. The cotton becomes damp from his saliva and tears. He thinks of Ahjumma.

Did she pass alone or had she been surrounded by the people she loved? Had it been quick? Or had her agony dragged until the end? What about the funeral? God, he should’ve been there. He should’ve been there with Minhyung to send her off one last time. Eunji doesn’t know Ahjumma the way he does. She doesn’t hate her the way he does and she doesn’t love her the way he does. She doesn’t know Minhyung the way he does either. He should’ve been there by Minhyung’s side. It shouldn’t have been this way. How did he let things come to this point?

The digital clock on the dresser reads 9:34 P.M. He clenches his eyes. Everything goes black. He opens his eyes. 10:23 P.M. The door opens and the harsh living room light pours into the hot room. Yukhei’s shadow stretches from the door to the middle of the room.

He sits on the bed, runs his hand through Donghyuck’s hair, brushes the wet strands away from his forehead. Donghyuck shies from the touch. He buries himself into the pillow, focuses on Minhyung’s scent. He wants to become one with the bed. Yukhei is saying something. His gentle voice fills the room like a soft piano piece. Donghyuck hears steps, then the door. The dark returns. He stays inside the pillow until he runs out of breath.

Outside the opened window, trails of white smoke dance in the air. They obscure Yeosu’s lights, filtering into the room in a hazy dance. Donghyuck breathes in Marlboro Red.

He sleeps.

* * *

Donghyuck wakes sometime between two and three in the morning. The room is an oven and he is the meal waiting to be cooked. He is sticky and sweaty and every inch of his body feels like it’s been put through a processor, his flesh diced and grounded and minced.

He leaves the bed. His bare feet tingle from the lack of movement as he slowly makes his way to the door. It opens with a whiny creek, unnaturally loud in the night overpowering the dripping faucet in the kitchen and the usual cries of an old apartment building.

Minhyung is sleeping on the couch, his body folded into itself just to fit his entire body on the small space. He’s still in his suit though the tie and jacket are gone. The belt he is wearing glitters with the fairy lights in the room.

Donghyuck kneels by the couch, leveling his face with Minhyung’s. Don’t open your eyes, open your eyes, don’t open your eyes, open your eyes, he thinks, his thoughts seesawing inside his head. He traces Minhyung’s hands, circling the ring on the fourth finger. He slides it out, disregarding how Minhyung might wake from his actions. It is not that he does not care, rather, it feels as if he has been possessed by a ghost making his thoughts unstable and his actions unpredictable.

The platinum ring gets stuck between Minhyung’s crooked joint. Donghyuck tugs it out as if he is pulling weed from his garden. Minhyung wakes just as he throws the ring onto the low-rise table. It bounces like a ball that has lost most of its air before sliding next to the remote control.

Donghyuck looks at Minhyung. His eyes are almost black resembling obsidians under the warm yellow glow around them. Ask me what I’m doing, Donghyuck thinks. Ask me why I’m like this—a mess on the edge of my sanity, he thinks. Minhyung doesn’t ask him. All he does is stares. He doesn’t even look surprised.

“Can you hold me?” Donghyuck says and the words come out as cracked whispers, itching the back of his throat and burning his heart from where the words originate. “You don’t have to say anything. I just need you to hold me.”

Every word that leaves his mouth cleaves a line on the mask he’s been wearing for 10 years. They fracture into thousands of sharp pieces. Stop talking, he thinks. You’ll ruin everything, he thinks. Stop, Lee Donghyuck, stop, you can’t do this, he thinks.

Minhyung stares at him and for once Donghyuck can’t tell what he is thinking. Has it been so long he has become a person Donghyuck can no longer read? Had Donghyuck been wrong? Would Eunji be able to read this expression if she was here?

He tries again, grabbing Minhyung’s shirt, crinkling the crisp expensive fabric. It bunches in his hands like an eternal white rose and he says, “Please hold me, Minhyung Hyung,” and when Minhyung pushes his hands away, something breaks irrevocably inside of him.

He stands, pushes himself away from the couch even if his legs feel like giving in. He’s beginning to cry. He can feel it behind his eyes, in his throat, the way his teeth shakes. Maybe he has already. He holds the back of his wrist to his mouth, stumbles blindly to the room. His body falls into the bed Minhyung has slept in and his face plants in the pillow Minhyung’s head has laid. The white comforters full of Minhyung’s scent becomes his bubble.

He stares into the wall. If it had been glass, he would be directly facing his own sleeping figure in Minhyuck’s room. He feels cold even though the room is a heater. The bed dips. Minhyung’s arms circle his waist. He is dragged into Minhyung’s broad chest. Minhyung’s head falls into the space between his shoulder, his neck, skin against skin. When he nuzzles the skin, his hair brushes against Donghyuck’s cheek. Their legs tangle like braided knots. Donghyuck reaches for the hands on his stomach. He interlaces them so that each finger has a lover. Donghyuck wants to press himself into Minhyung’s skin until he has made a home in his heart and the crevices of his skeleton until there is no Lee Donghyuck and no Lee Minhyung, just one entity in one body.

Let me stay here with this person, he prays to God, let me build a home in his spirit and let me stay loud and constant in his life, weathering the good and the bad until the world is destroyed and we forget our names but we will always know each other’s.

He sleeps.

* * *

It’s the lack of body heat that wakes Donghyuck. He jumps from the empty bed, palms the space next to him. It’s dented from the shape of Minhyung’s body but it’s also cold which means he’s been gone for a while.

Donghyuck panics, briefly wonders if this is God punishing him before his hands come to clutch at his closed throat. He chokes, gasps a raw disgusting sound that sounds pitiful even to his ears. The door is thrown open and Minhyung appears still in yesterday’s outfit. There are circles under his eyes and he’s sporting a morning shadow but Donghyuck reaches for him anyway.

He doesn’t want to go back to being whatever they had been after having a taste of what had been his from the beginning. He doesn’t care if Minhyung doesn’t remember or if he thinks Donghyuck is a loose man or if Donghyuck has lost his mind—as long as Minhyung reciprocates.

He lets Minhyung take him into his arms, bringing him into the bathroom where a bath has been drawn. He’s set on the faux marble counter and his legs dangle inches from the floor. Minhyung strips him starting from his own blue cardigan, then the thin white shirt underneath, then his jeans. He stops at Donghyuck’s underwear. He hesitates, avoids Donghyuck’s eyes before turning to the door.

Donghyuck grabs his hand, “Stay,” he says and Minhyung stays. He helps him out of the black boxer-briefs where it is thrown into the hamper along with the rest of his clothes. He slides into the tub, the warm water reaching his sternum and Minhyung sits next to him on the tiled floor, legs crossed, head on the wall, and eyes closed. The tub feels too big for one person even though Donghyuck legs are slightly bent just to fit. He brings his legs to his chest, lays the side of his cheekbone on his knees, and he demands, “Hyung, join me.”

Minhyung’s eyes remain close, his breath even, and for a moment, Donghyuck thinks he has fallen asleep until he stands up. He keeps his eyes on Donghyuck as he unbuttons his shirt revealing naked skin. His belt clinks on the floor, then his pants, then his grey boxer-briefs follow until he is entirely bare in Donghyuck’s vision, an Adonis drawn in sharp angles, shaped muscles and pale skin.

Donghyuck slides up to make room for Minhyung who sits behind him. His legs shield the side of Donghyuck’s body and Donghyuck falls into Minhyung’s chest, laying his head on the sturdy flesh. Minhyung's stubbles poke at his skin.

Donghyuck wonders if he is a homewrecker now. Is this the first time for Minhyung? Does he do this often with other men and women? Or is it just Donghyuck? What would Eunji say if she saw them like this? What a mess things have become, he thinks.

They sit there in the cooling water, half aroused and sleep-deprived, until the cold becomes unbearable. Donghyuck unplugs the tub. The water and foam drains into the void and what is left of Donghyuck’s good manners and sense of decency goes with it too.

Minhyung wipes every inch of his body so that no part is left wet, then he dresses him in his own white t-shirt. It’s too big on Donghyuck, sliding off his shoulder, revealing his clavicles but it smells like Minhyung and he can’t bear to part with anything that belongs to Minhyung anymore.

After they are both dressed, they return to the bed. The sun has been up for a while shining into the small room and basking everything in a shimmery glow. They go to bed in the same position they had assumed.

He’ll close the shop for the morning, Donghyuck briefly thinks. After Jisung and Chenle arrive, they’ll go and pick Minhyuck up from school. Minhyuck will be happy to see Minhyung back so early. He wonders what he should cook for dinner. His breath mimics Minhyung’s even breathing behind his neck. He breathes in Marlboro Red.

He sleeps.


	15. Chapter 15

When Donghyuck wakes, it is to the hot sticky winds of a mid-May afternoon that had drifted into his room during the time he slept. This viscous and clammy feeling clung to his skin as if he had just emerged from a long-fevered dream bringing him home from that place that alternated between reality and delusion.

The stickiness hung relentlessly in the air, in the sheets, in all the folds of his body during the time between waking and dreaming until the humidity became unbearable and he extends his lids to greet the emptiness of an abandoned room.

From the slit between the door and the floor, the cacophonous buzz and drone of the kitchen hood swim into the room and he thinks, Minhyung must be cooking him lunch. In the pillow where he has buried his face, Minhyung’s scent dominates. It draws him from the painful throbs pulsing inside his skull and he wonders if Minhyung had already burned down his kitchen.

His breaths escape his mouth in puffs of condensation, damps the pillow moist. He brings Minhyung’s t-shirt up to his face and breathes not unlike an addict going through withdrawal. It oppresses him but different from the heat of the room which imitates the crushing pressure of an ocean, this oppressiveness compares to a weighted blanket on cold winter nights.

When he finally finds the strength to part from the bed, he grabs Minhyung’s pajama pants from the floor. They have been discarded during the day so that every inch of his skin touches Minhyung’s in that tenacious and overbearing way as if they had bathed in honey the night before thereby gluing their body together into one being. There is nothing sexual about it. For Donghyuck, it’s never been about sex and its pleasure. More than that, it is the binding of two souls in the most physical sense possible so that you cannot tell where one began and ended.

Would Eunji understand what Minhyung is seeking when he fucks her? Would Eunji understand that every curve and dip of Minhyung’s body is a hollow chamber waiting to be filled with its respective puzzle pieces? It must be barbaric, he thinks, when Eunji opens her legs and Minhyung slides in and they engage in that act called sex without knowing what it really means.

He slips the thin pants on while sitting on the edge of the bed. His head continues to fight itself inside his cranium and he thinks he might be running a low fever. Minhyung will take care of him, he thinks. Minhyung will take care of him as he always does.

* * *

He opens the door. The fairy lights have been unplugged so that the only light in the apartment came from the open balcony. This light kissed all that is exposed making everything seem lighter and softer than they are. It also left the hidden areas dark and mysterious and strange and it felt as if one were to step into the shadows they would disappear into the void.

He sees Yukhei, standing in front of the stove. He’s stirring something in the pot until he spots Donghyuck and he stops. He puts the clear lid on the pot and walks over to Donghyuck who is wondering if Minhyung is in the bathroom or the balcony or the shop or maybe he is in the room and Donghyuck had missed him when he woke up. Yukhei puts his hands on Donghyuck’s shoulders, still clothed in Minhyung’s t-shirt and he asks, “How are you feeling? Why did you get up? I would’ve brought the food to you.”

He leads Donghyuck to the sofa, the same sofa Minhyung had curled up on last night and he puts his hand on Donghyuck’s knee which is covered by Minhyung’s pants. Then he puts his other hand on Donghyuck’s cheeks, the same cheeks that had laid on Minhyung’s chest. And Donghyuck asks, “Where is Minhyung Hyung?”

Yukhei frowns, cupping his face, feeling his forehead, and running his hands down Donghyuck’s arms which had held Minhyung’s figure for the entire night and morning. “What are you talking about? Who is ‘Minhyung Hyung’? You collapsed after that phone call last night. Do you know how worried I was?”

Donghyuck’s head pounds against his skull like a prisoner who has been given the wrong sentence, again and again, his bone vibrating against his scalp, his lungs trying to catch up to his breaths, and he says, “Last night—someone was holding me—someone—someone bathed me and dressed me and _held me_. It was Minhyung Hyung, Yukhei. He was here, he came back early, he left Eunji and he chose me and he—“

Yukhei clutches his hands, breaking him from his rambling and he says, “Haechan-ah, breathe for me,” and Donghyuck breathes in the words, forces it into lungs as if it will give him the ammo to will the lobes of his chest to do what it’s meant to do but it disappears in his throat before they reach their destination. Yukhei runs his hand through his hair massaging the scalp underneath and for all its intent to be soothing, it only exacerbates Donghyuck’s headache.

“After you blacked out, I gave you a light bath and changed your clothes. Good thing your fever peaked in the morning, otherwise I would’ve had to drive you to the hospital,” Yukhei says, bringing his hands to Donghyuck’s face again. “Do you feel unwell anywhere? Are you hungry? I made you juk. You didn’t eat anything last night or in the morning. You must be starving.”

He continues to bombard Donghyuck with questions but Donghyuck has already gone to a place filtering between the third and fourth dimensions. It exists in the deep caverns of his mind, that dark place void of light and logic. I’ve gone crazy, Donghyuck thinks. I’ve officially lost it, his voice says to him inside that hopeless place.

His psyche fails to catch up to his body and his memories slowly distort themselves into smudges of colors with every word Yukhei says. There is a clear and finished painting inside Donghyuck’s mind but it is as if Yukhei had smeared it with his bare hands before it got the chance to dry, so all that there is left is a ruined painting where complementary colors fought each other to be seen.

Donghyuck clutches Yukhei’s hand. His nails dig into the skin creating markings on the flesh. “The t-shirt, where did you get the t-shirt?”

“I found it in your room.”

“And the pants?”

“Also in your room…are you okay, Haechan-ah? Why are you acting like this?”

Donghyuck pushes Yukhei away. He drops to his knees in front of the table where he’d thrown Minhyung’s ring. His hands run through the clutter of papers and pens and remotes and he says, “Where is the ring?” Yukhei kneels with him, grabs his arms, and forces him to face the direction of the balcony and for a moment the afternoon sun blinds Donghyuck’s eyes until he is seeing spots when he closes his eyes.

“What ring? Haechan, you’re scaring me.”

Donghyuck wants the sun to melt him until his flesh liquefies, him, evaporating into the air, and when it is over, nothing of him will remain. He gazes at Yukhei, sees the dark brown hair faded in the back, his wide round eyes looking at him with terror and apprehension, his hands calloused from sunburns and days in the countryside, and how could he have taken him for Lee Minhyung?

The door opens, draws their attention to Minhyuck taking his shoes off by the shoe stand. Minhyuck upon seeing the pair shouts excitedly and he barrels into the space between them, each arm holding onto one side of Donghyuck and Yukhei.

“Appa! Yukhei Samchon!”

Following him, Minhyung stands by the door. He’s wearing the same suit he left Jeju-do in and he’s holding a small black suitcase. The areas under his eyes speak of a sleepless night. When he lifts a hand to run through his jet-black hair, Donghyuck sees the same ring he’d thrown away last night sitting on the fourth finger like a beacon or a lighthouse in the dark.

His eyes trace the pale hands of which he had held last night. These same pale hands are attached to the arms he had slept in. The skin under that rigid suit had embrace Donghyuck’s own.

He hadn’t imagined the scent and billowy smoke of Minhyung’s Marlboro Red swirling in the evening sky. He hadn’t imagined Minhyung’s gentleness, the way he’d held Donghyuck, the way his limbs tangled with his. He hadn’t imagined Minhyung’s presence the way they lay in that cold tub only mere hours ago in the early morning light.

Donghyuck’s stomach lurches. Time is out of order. Seasons are out of order. The sun and moon switch places. The air is both hot and cold. Nothing makes sense. His mind and memories have been scrambled as if someone had carved them out, shaken them, ran them through a meat grinder before filling his cranium with whatever had resulted from it.

Minhyuck is saying something but Donghyuck only hears the drones of a thousand bees inside the room. He pushes Minhyuck away, stumbles into the bathroom, and barely makes it to the toilet where his guts crawl from his stomach to his esophagus to his throat and out through his mouth. He hadn’t eaten for almost a day and all that comes out is the green bile in his intestines.

Minhyuck screams. Yukhei runs to his side. Donghyuck wipes the string of saliva away with the back of his hands and he falls into Yukhei’s open arms. His head rolls into Yukhei’s neck and he meets Minhyung’s somber gaze with half-lidded eyes.

Hold me, Donghyuck whispers inside his mind, the way he’d whispered to Minhyung last night among the warm golden glow of the living room. Hold me, Hyung, he says. Another man is touching me, has touched me, has seen me in the most vulnerable state, even then, will you not hold me?

Heavy silence cuts the air despite the cacophonous state of Donghyuck's mind. 

“Are you okay, Haechan-ssi?”

His cold stare, his polite words, they stay with Donghyuck. 

* * *

Donghyuck opens his mouth mechanically. Yukhei spoons the juk into his mouth. They are in Minhyuck's room. The fan has been turned on so that every smell in the room surges to the ceiling before falling through the spaces of the room. He’s on the futon with his back against the wall. Yukhei sits on the floor next to him. He feeds him and even after the bowl is empty, he stays with Donghyuck. In the tiny window above them, the sun sets in orange and their shadows slowly emerge on the empty wall in front of them like a projected movie.

“That person...he’s important to you,” Yukhei states when the quiet becomes as intolerable as the heat.  
  


Donghyuck’s head falls onto his shoulder and he stays there even if it doesn’t feel quite as right.

“Is Minhyuck okay?”

“He ate some juk and then he fell asleep on the couch a while ago.”

“Oh. The café?”

“I gave the keys to Jisung to close up.”

Yukhei’s head rests on top of Donghyuck’s. He takes Donghyuck’s hands from where it is tangled with the sheets and he massages the area between the thumb and finger. Yukhei’s hands are rougher than Minhyung’s from a humble life and years of part-time jobs. It is just as big to cover Donghyuck’s own but the shape and length of the fingers differ from Minhyung’s. It is a good hand but it is not Minhyung’s.

“Haechan-ah, won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Yukhei says but what he is really asking for, the unspoken things that have always nested between them, are the same things Donghyuck cannot give because the truth about feelings, about trauma, and regret is that honesty to another is not possible if you cannot be honest to yourself first. 

How can kind intentions be enough for a heart that seeks more than limitless affection and generosity? It is as if he is a netted basket, and even as he is filled with more than he knows he deserves, it will always be in fruitless effort. 

The truth is, some things cannot be given to others and for others, these are the same things they cannot give, and so, once again, in vain, in futile, he whispers, "Please hold me," and Yukhei holds him even if he knows the words are not for him. 

* * *

The sun dips below the horizon and the oranges and pinks of the sky return to their palettes leaving Jeju-do’s evening sky a sentimental kind of navy blue. Yukhei tucks him into the futon and he kisses his forehead. He leaves the room and the buzzing returns. Donghyuck distracts himself by counting the cycles of the revolving fan in the corner of the room.

He is still wearing Minhyung’s t-shirt. His mind runs to Marlboro Red. To Tom Ford suits, to crisp dress shirts, to sharp cheekbones, to white skin, to obsidian eyes, to knees behind his, to legs entangled with his, to long bony fingers kissing his, to fairy lights, to cold bathwater, to the hot May air, then back to Marlboro Red.

His finger moves on its own, drawing a pattern into the sheets. A tattoo. He’d seen Minhyung’s tattoo. Why can’t he remember it? Why can’t he remember Minhyung’s tattoo when he’d seen it only hours ago. It had been a black tattoo inked into the side of his torso running the entire length of his hip bone to his sternum.

Donghyuck had seen it. He’d traced it with his fingers. Why can’t he remember? He hits his head. Think, he says to himself, think! He hadn’t imagined it. No matter what Yukhei says, no matter how Minhyung had acted towards him this afternoon, whatever transpired last night to the early morning hadn’t been a dream. So why is there a missing piece inside his head?

“Appa?”

Donghyuck jumps. Minhyuck stands by the slightly opened door where a slither of light falls into the shadows. He looks terrified and he’s making that expression he’d made on the first day of kindergarten as he’d cried after Donghyuck’s retreating figure. He extends an arm out and Minhyuck rushes to bury his face into Donghyuck’s chest. Minhyuck holds him like Donghyuck is his lifeline. 

“You’re my favorite, Appa.”

Donghyuck empties his mind. He lets himself breathe.

“You’re my favorite too, Lee Minhyuck.”


	16. Chapter 16

Donghyuck holds Minhyuck for the entire night. For the entire night, Minhyuck’s breaths tickle Donghyuck’s neck. When the sky grows light, he detaches Minhyuck’s balled-up fist from Minhyung’s t-shirt and heads to the bathroom.

He stands in front of the sink and stares at himself under the fluorescent white lights installed above the mirror. He takes in the disheveled hair and gray skin and traces every crack on his dry lips. He starts the faucet in the tub. The water runs scalding hot and it anchors him to reality.

He showers, washes the grime and sweat from his body and hair, brushes his teeth, and dresses in a loose sand-colored button-up and a pair of black slacks. He runs the towel through his hair which has grown enough to brush his lower neck before venturing to the kitchen table where he sits inside the shadows. Eventually, his hair starts to dry and even the shadows recede to the walls and as he waits, he sips on clementine tea.

The sky continues to grow lighter and lighter until he is sitting in the sun. His bedroom door opens and Minhyung comes out looking haggard. He mumbles a morning greeting to Donghyuck and Donghyuck echoes it back. He goes into the bathroom. The door closes and shortly after, Donghyuck hears the toilet flush. The faucet runs for a long time then it stops. He hears the hum of Minhyung’s electric shaver.

When he comes out moments later, he looks every bit like the multi-billionaire CEO he is even in his grey t-shirt and black sweatpants. He sits in front of Donghyuck who offers him a cup of clementine tea; the kitchen becoming their stage and the beams of bright white becoming their light.

“How are you? You didn’t look well yesterday.”

“Food poisoning. How was your trip?”

“It went fine.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“I’ll be leaving earlier than I expected. There’s been an emergency with the company and I’m needed back in Seoul.”

Behind them, the faucet drips from the leak Donghyuck never got to fix. Outside, several bikes run through the asphalt road. Donghyuck plays with his fingers. He peels off the hangnail on his thumb. The tissue severs from his skin and a pinch of blood peeks from the opening but it is not enough that it runs down the digit.

“When will you be leaving?”

“Tonight. I came back to grab my belongings.”

“Minhyuck will miss you.”

“I’ll miss him too.”

They finish the clementine tea leaving the wet orange pieces to lie at the bottom of their mugs. It’s a beautiful morning—all cloudless blue skies and cool breezes and the smell of summer’s arrival hovering over the island. A soft wind passes through the kitchen window. It ruffles the white curtains and as it does, Donghyuck stares at Minhyung who stares back with gated eyes. 

The door clicks open and Minhyuck steps out rubbing his eyes with his arms. He says his greetings to Minhyung before running into Donghyuck’s open arms. Donghyuck pulls him into his lap like he used to do when Minhyuck was young and Minhyuck wraps his arms around Donghyuck’s neck and he asks, “Are you feeling better, Appa?”

Donghyuck nods. He brushes Minhyuck’s hair away, rubs the tiny scar near his brow.

“Much better.”

“Okay,” Minhyuck says. He nudges his face into the side of Donghyuck’s neck. “You’re my favorite, Appa.”

Donghyuck looks at Minhyung. Then he says, “You’re my favorite too.”

* * *

During the late afternoon, they leave the café to pick Minhyuck up together one last time. It’s a narrow road for two adults and often they would walk slightly ahead of one another to fit but today they walk side by side so that each time their arms swung with every step, their hands would brush one another’s just the slightest but not enough to call it a touch.

Today too, Minhyung is wearing his suit—a deep navy that resembles the darkest depths of the ocean. They’re a bit early so they sit on the nearby bench directly facing the entrance of the building. Despite what he’d told Minhyuck, Donghyuck still feels a bit feverish but not enough to debilitate him. Right now, he exists in that illusory plane, one step away from reality but he cannot bring himself to take that step.

He closes his eyes, faces the hot afternoon sun, and breathes the way Yukhei had taught him to yesterday. He refuses to look at Minhyung even though he can feel his gaze on him like a predator locked onto his prey or a scientist to his experiment.

Eventually, the wide red door bursts open freeing the crowd of students. Minhyuck says goodbye to Sanha and skips his way to the pair. It’s not Donghyuck who he runs to but Minhyung who pulls him into his arms, lifting him into the air before settling him on his back so that Minhyuck’s legs dangle from his shoulder.

Minhyuck squeals, clutching on Minhyung’s hands which have gone up to support his body. They go home like this, side by side with the yellow sun behind and the azure sky above. The spring wind leads them home.

* * *

It rains at night. Donghyuck is cooking dinner. He is chopping onions and frying meat and stirring soup and behind him in the living room, Minhyuck is fawning over the guitar Minhyung has brought for him from Seoul. When he holds it against his body the way Minhyung has taught him to, it covers half of his height.

It’s an old guitar that has been kept in good condition over the years. Donghyuck knows only because he recognizes the bear sticker he’d stuck on the body of the instrument years ago when they were teenagers. The brown color of the bear has faded and scratched but it stays on the guitar as if it has always been one with it.

Minhyung teaches him the basic chords and Minhyuck listens with the intensity of someone who is being taught the secrets of the world. In this little apartment, there is the sound of a sizzling pan, of pattering rain, of the soft strums of the guitar strings, of Minhyung’s quiet instructions, and Minhyuck’s soft giggles.

They eat dinner. Minhyuck tells them about Sanha falling asleep during history class. Then he shows them the essay he’d written about Taejo of Joseon which Moon Seongsaengnim had complimented. He gives all his carrots to Minhyung who gives Minhyuck all the meat on his plate. Minhyuck has always been a child who had leftovers in his bowl but for once he finishes everything Donghyuck and Minhyung piles for him. He even finishes the bitter herbal soup Donghyuck pours for him. When Donghyuck is washing the dishes, Minhyung takes Minhyuck inside the room. He doesn’t come out even after all the dishes have been washed and wiped and stored.

Donghyuck waits for Minhyung at the balcony. Rain hits the roof above him and it creates a song he cannot follow. His slippers are wet at the tips from where the water bounces off the barrier before it slips onto the tiled floor and in front of him, misty air parasols his view. Everything exists in front of him but he cannot see it. The door slides open and Minhyung stands next to him with his hands in his pockets.

“Did you tell him?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he cry?”

“Just a little. He’s a strong kid, though. I waited for him to fall asleep.”

They watch the rain, the mist, and the swirling clouds. In the distance, there is thunder but no lightning. Strange, Donghyuck thinks.

“Your friend, Yukhei—he’s a good man,” Minhyung says. He lights a cigarette. On the balcony, there is the sound of rain, thunder, scorching ember, mingling with the evening air.

Donghyuck pilfers the stick from Minhyung's lips. The tip is slightly moist from Minhyung’s mouth and it tastes white and grey on his tongue. He holds the cough itching inside his throat and allows the nicotine to infiltrate his chest as it infuses with his blood, feeling it weave a direct path to his head.

There is tar in his lungs now and it will never go away. Each puff he takes replaces the healthy cells in his body leaving his organs black, burnt, and scarred. He stares at Minhyung through the curtain of smoke and Minhyung stares at him. Minhyung looks away.

“Take care, Haechan-ssi.”

The door slides open then it slides close. Then the front door slides open and it slides close. Then the door separating the café and the stairs leading up to the apartment. Then the café door separating the shop from the world.

He hears it all from balcony—an umbrella being opened, the drag of Minhyung’s suitcase across asphalt, his quick resolved steps preceding him. He’s walking in the direction of the town hall where his car is parked. He doesn’t turn back—not even once. Donghyuck’s eyes follow Minhyung’s back. Bright. Vivid even in the middle of the night.

Donghyuck falls. He crouches, hugs his knees to his chest. The half-burned cigarette hangs from his fingers.

“Come back,” he murmurs into his knee. “Come back, Hyung. Minhyung Hyung, come back,” again, and again, he repeats, still, all that leaves his lips have been carried away by the wind.

* * *

Donghyuck is drunk, teetering between the edges of a good buzz and complete intoxication. There are two soju bottles on the table. The green glass reflects a dark brown in the dark. He’s gone through four more cigarettes in the time Minhyung has gone. He’d found a stray pack in his room. He’s in the kitchen drinking soju and smoking cigarettes and drowning himself in the vapors of Marlboro Red. He lays his head in his arms, eyes searching the dark.

Outside, there is a hum of a plane flying overhead but he cannot see the aircraft through the wet windows. The kitchen table becomes his canvas and his fingers paint a pattern into the wood—a large fine line coiling itself several times to make a circle and jutting from that circle are multiple lines in various but similar lengths also done in the same knife-like sharpness. He wonders where he’d seen the pattern and why it has made a home in his mind.

His phone vibrates and it lights up in the dark like a beacon blinding him for a long time until he swipes past the countless unanswered texts from Jeno and ceaseless calls from Jaemin. Even Renjun has texted him. His news notifications are on and the headline that pops on the screen, shielding Minhyuck’s eyes in the background says the following: **LEE CONGLOMERATE’S CEO, LEE MINHYUNG (30), HAS A SECRET LOVER?** Donghyuck laughs. He clicks on the article which links him to several others with similar titles. He throws the phone away and it slides across the table, hitting the almost empty soju bottles.

Lee Donghyuck is in a car with no brakes and there is nothing in between him and the cliff he is heading towards. It feels like he has already fallen. Lee Donghyuck is drunk—drunk on sorrow and heartache and all the saddest and most wretched words in the dictionary.

He dances to the silence of the dark room as if to perform a ceremony, a ritual of sorts to sacrifice his pain to God for some sort of answer. Take me, he thinks. Take me, my body, my soul until my everything becomes nothing and I can be free from the consequences of my sins. He trips over himself to fall into the floor, and milliseconds before his head meets the sharp corners of the table, he is suddenly transported to Minhyung’s arms.

Donghyuck pushes the arms away and he cries, “No, you’re not real. You’re not _real,_ ” and Minhyung holds him—holds him like he once did, like he had denied doing just a mere night ago and he recites into Donghyuck’s hair, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” again and again to the rhythm of lightning flaring across the sky and Donghyuck falls apart in his arms and the repentant echoes of his voice and Donghyuck cries, “Hold me, Hyung, Minhyung Hyung, hold me,” and when it happens, it happens with the strongest thunder booming across the sky accompanied by flashes of white stalks plunging from the clouds. Minhyung carries him to bed.

Then, they are tongue to tongue, skin to skin, flesh to flesh, no longer Lee Donghyuck or Lee Haechan or Lee Minhyung or Lee Mark, just two souls bearing their most vulnerable parts to each other in this egalitarian dance.

His room rings with obscene sounds, his skin burns fiery red, and Minhyung tells him to be quiet because Minhyuck is next door, so he bites into Minhyung’s shoulders, a claim and a declaration to the sky, to the earth, and to hell with everyone because this man is his, has always been his and even if the proofs and markings are gone, his flesh will never lie.

Every bone, organ, blood cell, belongs to Lee Donghyuck who has nested in them time after time. Minhyung kisses his ankles, his legs, his thighs, and Donghyuck lets him because there is no part of him, both past and present, that has never been Lee Minhyung’s. He has always been an empty house waiting for its owner to come home.

He comes undone under Minhyung’s hands and mouth and flesh, made and remade, made and remade in moments he’d forgotten and had only let himself indulge in the deepest nights. And in these junctures, Donghyuck understands that he is dying in Minhyung’s hold, has died over a thousand times and will continue to die only to be resurrected to be killed again and again, and he thinks, you are killing me, Lee Minhyung, you are killing me, stop, don’t stop, faster, slower, you’re not real, you are real, take me, take me, _take me_ —

hold me.

* * *

Donghyuck wakes. He is naked and sticky with semen and saliva. His body is bruised purple and red and blue from where Minhyung has staked his claim. He is sore and tired and he is furious.

The alcohol is slowly receding from his system and he pushes Minhyung’s arms around his waist and he whispers, “You knew,” and when Minhyung, beautiful Minhyung, handsome Minhyung, Lee Minhyung who he belongs to says his name, not the persona he has made for himself to cope with all that he’s lost but his real name, the name of the person he won’t let himself be, he feels the deepest urge to cry and no sooner does the thought enter his mind, he does cry, and he sobs, “All this time, you knew. All this time, you knew who I was, who _Minhyuck was,_ and yet you pretended you didn’t.”

“Donghyuck, it’s not like that,” Minhyung says and Donghyuck comes undone once more when he hears the reverence and devotion, like Donghyuck’s name is Lee Minhyung’s revelation, his anger surges once more.

He sees Minhyung’s tattoo, sees how it soars the expanse of his pale skin carving itself into Minhyung’s flesh and muscle, the same pattern he had been drawing all night on that damn kitchen table. His breaths come out short.

“You _were_ there that night! It wasn’t Yukhei! It was you who held me and bathe me and yet you acted as if nothing happened!”

“Donghyuck, you don’t understand,” Minhyung says and Donghyuck waits for him to say more, to explain what is it that he doesn’t understand but Minhyung only stares at him with wide pained eyes as if he’s the one who had been lied to. And because there is no explanation for Minhyung’s actions, why he has lied, why he has left and return and left only to return again, Donghyuck’s mind begins to flit in panic like a bird who has lost its way.

“Stop saying _my name_ _!_ Why did you leave? Why did you _come back?_ Was all you wanted a quick _fuck?_ Did you want to fuck me one last time before you go back to your perfect life with your perfect wife and perfect son because I’ve never been enough for you to _stay?_ Because Minhyuck isn’t enough for you to stay!?”

And Donghyuck knows his words are ridiculous, he is going on a tangent and his sentences do not make sense because it had been Donghyuck who left Minhyung first; it had been Donghyuck who left him in that cold, empty hotel room with no explanation, with no words, with nothing but shattered dreams and yet Donghyuck cannot stop his words. He is screaming and he is losing his mind.

“No, Donghyuck-ah, it’s not like that, it’s never been like that, I’ve never meant for things to be like this, I would never hurt you—“

Donghyuck shoves Minhyung’s arms away and he shouts, “Don’t touch me, Lee Minhyung!” and just as soon as the words leave him, the door creaks open, and there standing just a step away from the room is Minhyuck. Donghyuck stops and he feels Minhyung stop too and he calls out, “M-Minhyuck-ah.”

* * *

Everything after becomes a blur and Sunshine Town has become hell. The apocalypse has started and it begins with Sunshine Town with grey clouds rolling and churning in the sky resounding with Zeus’s anger. The strait surges with black water slamming against the rock cliffs as if to break down the town’s last defense against the oceans.

Donghyuck sees it like a movie. Minhyuck is running up the cliff. Minhyung chases him. The ground is wet and satiny and greasy from the rain. He sees it—the diagonal decline of the path corroded by the rain narrowing into the waters—sees it milliseconds before Minhyuck slips, plummeting into the strait, followed by Minhyung jumping after him.

The thunder swallows Donghyuck’s screams.


	17. Chapter 17

It is the frigid and almost burning coldness inside his bones that wakes Minhyung. This aching and excruciating chill, comparable to being thrown into the East Siberian Sea is intense enough to make his flesh burn hot. He thinks he might be dying until just as suddenly, the pain begins to recede like the low tides of the sea. He opens his eyes, finding himself in a large room, wide white French windows leading to a balcony. 

There is empty space beyond it as if God had forgotten to create the rest of the world and just steps before it, he sees a white grand piano sitting in front of the windows and even though nothing exists beyond the balcony, a direct stream of sunlight gleams through the sheer chiffon curtains lending an aisle of glaring white onto the leather seat. He is on a bed with sheets made of similar material to the curtains. The boy who is lying next to him cards his hand through his hair. He leans into the touch and thinks he must’ve died.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“I’m not sure,” this beautiful boy says back.

They are both naked under the sheets. Minhyung thinks he should be embarrassed but there is nothing shameful about it. There’s nothing sexual about it either. He shifts himself up and following his movement, the airy and almost translucent material around them bunches like the petals of a rose.

His eyes are infatuated with this beautiful boy—with his beautiful features and his beautiful limbs and his beautiful skin and his beautiful flesh. He is beautiful in the way of setting suns, of falling snow, and of roaring ocean waves—lovely in the way flowers and mountains and songbirds are.

Looking at this beautiful boy with his beautiful eyes fills him with an irrevocable current of sadness as if he has lost something that has always been his. He wants to hold him in his arms so that no other will lay eyes on him, so that not even a strand of hair is harmed whilst he is in Minhyung’s arms. He looks away, wets his lips, and asks, “Where am I?”

The boy removes his hand from his hair where it had been tangled in the short strands as if he is part of Minhyung’s body and Minhyung moves with him, not wanting to part from his warmth. “I don’t know,” he says.

He gets up and the delicate white sheets fall from his body revealing the long expanse of the rest of his torso leading to even longer legs. He stretches his arms above him and Minhyung follows the outline of his body swimming under a sun he cannot see. He turns around to rest his elbows on the piano and he says, “You brought me here. But it’s time to wake up now, Minhyung Hyung.”

The curtains begin to disappear followed by the grids of the windows followed by the glass followed by the frame. Then the black and white keys of the piano, then the entirety of it, then the seat. The sheets of the bed go too and the bed follows.

Minhyung runs to the boy. He holds him, buries his face into the boy’s neck and he thinks, whatever it is—don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him. The boy begins to circle his arms around his waist and centimeters before his hand connects with Minhyung’s skin, he disappears. Gone, just like that, with no sound, with no explosion, with no fireworks—he has gone as if he had never been there in the first place.

Minhyung falls to his knees. He cries and cries and cries but no one is there to hear him or hold him or card their fingers through his hair. In this hollow white room, there is only him, the walls, and the feeling that he has lost something very important to him.

* * *

Dr. Lee Taeyong is a kind man with kind eyes and a kind demeanor. He is cordial and gracious with the makings of a pediatrician who had switched into neurology at the very last minute. This is the third time he has visited Minhyung in the last day and a half though Minhyung isn’t sure if that is because of his chaebol status, his mother’s overbearing attitude towards his recovery, or the severity of his medical condition.

The private room he’s been placed in soars the rest of the floors, overlooking Songpa-gu—the southeastern part of Seoul—and Asan Medical Center’s rich green courtyard. It sits far from the distasteful smell of urine and blood and antiseptics and Minhyung who has yet made peace with his identity finds that capitalism exists even in between life and death.

Taeyong asks for his name, the date, and if he knows where he is as he’d always done each time he came. He writes on his clipboard then shines his penlight into his pupil. He listens to his heart and his lungs. He tells Minhyung to push against his hand, pull his fingers, look this way, look that way—standard neurological tests they’ve been enforcing on him.

It could’ve been worse, he thinks. It could’ve gone very bad as Taeyong had told him the first day he woke from his 6-month coma. When Taeyong decides he’s done enough poking and probing and listening for the visit, he sits in the chair next to the bed and pulls out several papers from the manila file labeled with his name.

“Your INR and PTT results are spectacular so we’re going to keep the dosage of the anticoagulant you’re currently taking,” Taeyong says before he pulls out a black and white file. He points to the picture as if Minhyung will make any sense of it even with the guidance. “As I’ve told you, the blood clot caused by the accident is small enough to be treated with aggressive thrombolytic regimen and we’d rather not perform surgery unless it’s necessary.”

Minhyung nods even if the words have already left his mind. He’s focused on the sparrow sitting on the ledge of the window, pecking at the small pebbles in front of it.

Minhyung thinks if he were to hold it in his hands, it would disappear the moment he encloses his fingers given how small the bird is. He furrows his brows when he thinks about the bird disappearing and wonders why his chest stirs in that uncomfortable way it does when he thinks of his current predicament.

“How have you been feeling?” Taeyong asks.

“Fine. Just…it feels like there’s a gaping hole in my brain. It’s still difficult for me to recall anything,” he replies. The sparrow flies away and he returns his attention to his lap where he finds his hands are balled into fists. The nice ironed and daily washed comforter they’ve given him bunches in his fingers. He wonders how many other types of blankets there are in the hospital. Certainly, the floors beneath him have to make do with their thin and itchy sheets.

Taeyong hums and says, “Post-traumatic retrograde amnesia is often common with subdural hematomas but I reckoned from your MRI results and how you’re responding to the treatments, it’ll most likely be short term.” He circles a few things on the notes he’s brought with him before continuing, “I’d like to keep you here for another week or so just as a precaution and if your third MRI brings good results, we’ll discharge you so that you can complete your physical therapy at home as Madame Lee prefers.”

Taeyong stays until his pager beeps and he leaves the room to attend to his next VIP client. After, Minhyung buries himself under the comforter. He thinks of Taeyong. He thinks of his medications. He thinks of the sparrow and the types of blankets, and physical therapy and Jaemin and Jeno and Eunji and the woman who calls herself his mother. He can’t shake off the feeling that there is something else he’s supposed to think of but his mind draws a blank. The sparrow returns later that night but by that time, Minhyung has already fallen asleep.

* * *

He returns to the white room every night. Every night he wakes in the boy’s embrace with his hands threaded through Minhyung’s hair and every night, their breaths mingle in the small space between them. The conversations are different each time but it all ends the same way; it begins with the windows then the piano then the bed then finally, the boy vanishing in his arms like a ghost.

“Today…do you know who you are?”

The boy shakes his head. His hair tickles Minhyung’s neck.

“I don’t know, Minhyung Hyung. You have to tell me.”

And Minhyung wants to say, how can I tell you when I barely know who I am? And just as soon as the thought enters his head, the window begins to fade. He closes his eyes and prepares himself to lose the beautiful boy tonight too.

* * *

They’ve transformed the gym in the basement into a personal rehabilitation center. The physical therapist, Dr. Seo Youngho, is a tall man with the sort of strong impressionable features you would see on T.V. He is temperate and forgiving like a good spring morning even in the face of Minhyung’s temper.

The center becomes his personal hell—each equipment a reminder of his incompetence even if Dr. Seo explains in his accented Korean that post-TBI muscular dystrophy recovery should not be rush. No matter his good intentions, it doesn’t stop Minhyung’s shame and he finds himself sneaking into the basement in the middle of the night to practice the set of exercises Dr. Seo has curated for him. He stays until his legs and arms are bruised purple and blue.

When he falls, no one is there to catch him.

* * *

Minhyung surmises the worst thing about amnesia is not the loss of memory but rather it is living up to the person everyone recognizes you as.

It takes him three weeks to figure out that the person he is now isn’t the person he had been pre-accident though the people around him don’t care to elaborate beyond, ‘You’re different,’ and at this point, Minhyung is too drained from meeting new faces and old faces and learning new names which had been old names. It is hard to be the person who is named Lee Minhyung.

Lee Jeno, his cousin, occasionally visits with his boyfriend, Na Jaemin, who Minhyung is told is his best friend though he isn’t sure how true that is considering the constipated grimace Jaemin wears upon hearing the words.

Maybe they had been best friends once and now that Minhyung isn’t the Minhyung they know, he’d rather not continue the friendship? Minhyung doesn’t know and he finds that thinking things like that only makes him feel naïve and childish. The fourth person of their quartet is a pretty girl named Ko Eunji.

In between his physical therapies, weekly check-ups, and private business tutoring his mother has arranged for him, it’s hard to find time to rebuild their friendship. On the rare occasion they do meet up, the atmosphere can only be described as forceful as if they’ve been conscripted to interact with Minhyung which leads him to think either they weren’t close, to begin with, or he’s changed so much, the group dynamic has also changed with him.

Regardless, Minhyung, too, dreads these meetings, finding himself morally obligated to take on a persona everyone is used to just to alleviate the tense pressure.

His mother, who everyone refers to as Madame Lee, is a strong charismatic woman who he finds he takes after not only in terms of looks but of personality as well. Aside from the classes she's arranged for him only four weeks post-discharged, she doesn’t seem to be too eager for him to revert to the person he had been—the Lee Minhyung who everyone describes as brazen, bold, fierce—and Minhyung finds that he isn’t too keen to return to that character either.

Still, they’ve taken on a sort of formal and almost business-like relationship even if pictures show that they used to be close at some point—that point being everything pre-accident.

Minhyung prefers it this way and he reckons if she had forced her position as the dotting and caring mother she portrays in the photographs around the house, he wouldn’t know how to respond. It’s different with Jeno, and Jaemin, and Eunji. With his mother, he thinks she would smell his bullshit from kilometers away given the blood they share.

When he’s not at the hospital with its white walls and diseased hallways, he’s at the study with its monumental bookshelves hovering over him, and when he’s not at either, he is in his room. It is a pleasant room with smooth white walls, a good bed, a large closet, and everything else a nice room would have. In this room, he discovers who Lee Minhyung is.

The Lee Minhyung in everyone’s memory is someone with messy handwriting and an even messier desk. On his shelf, there is Kafka and Vonnegut, and despite what he portrays to people, he is also an odd romanticist who enjoys Keats, Hemingway, and Fitzgerald. He enjoys living in luxury with his tailored expensive clothes and designer shoes and extravagant showy cars but the Gibson guitar with the faded bear sticker sitting in the corner of his room speaks of a softer side.

His mother calls him Minhyung, his friends call him Minhyung Hyung, the employees at the company and helpers at home call him Young Master. This is Lee Minhyung—20 and brazen, bold, fierce but also patient, sympathetic, and kind. 

This is Lee Minhyung and this is who he has to be.

* * *

August of that year comes slowly as if the world does not want summer to end. It is his 21st birthday today and after a painfully awkward celebration that had been filled with stilted conversations about his health and progress (or nonprogress) with the recovery of his memories, he retires for the night and despite how the day and afternoon went, it is a good night for Minhyung.

For Minhyung, a good night is a clear night. And a clear night is a night without the moon, without the clouds, the stars, and the occasional stray aircraft.

At 21, he finds that he likes the void—this empty black darkness above him that speaks of something much larger than life, much larger than his existence, and far more foreboding and transcendental than his memory loss.

The fear of this otherworldliness and the possibility of higher beings is enough to distract him from his own problems. He spends the entire night on the roof to stare at this onyx sky until the wind picks up and it starts to feel like the beginning of autumn.

On the way to his room, he stops in front of the doors directly facing his. It’s a storage room, his mother had replied when he off-handedly mentioned it the first few days upon returning home, and he’d let it go despite the obvious lie in her strange tone because if he were to be truthful, the mysteries of a locked room had been the least of his worries at that point, and soon it had slipped his mind the way summer will soon slip too.

Tonight though, he is drawn to this door. This large floor-to-ceiling dark mahogany door spanning three meters wide in length. He pulls at the locked golden handle with the movement of someone who has been possessed. It doesn’t budge per expectation yet, even so, the disappointment that floods him is far greater than what he’d expected and it is this disappointment that channels his frustration until he is pulling at this golden knob with the strength of a madman. It rattles repeatedly in this dark, long, desolated hallway and he pulls at it again and again and again until the knob breaks from the wood.

His hands burn as if he’d stuck it in a charcoal grill and the skin has been torn off in the places that had rubbed itself incessantly against brass. His pink flesh peeps underneath not unlike the salmon sashimi he’d eaten for lunch. He wipes the blood on his pants, the red blending into the black cotton.

He opens the door. For a storage room his mother had claimed it to be, there is strangely a lack of storage (though this too, he’d expected). The general layout of the room mimics his own with the additional balcony attached to the French windows which have been sealed shut. There is nothing in the room saved for a large white grand piano of which the lid has been propped up.

There is no chair so he sits on the floor. His head rests on the legs of the piano. He palms the bear sticker on the edges of the body. It matches the one on his guitar—faded and scratched so that where there used to be eyes, there is only white space. He falls asleep in this cold barren room with a piano that has been abandoned by its owner.

When he returns the next night, he discovers that the knob has been replaced and a deadbolt has been installed along with it.

Everything has gone but the painful stinging in his hands remains.

* * *

Minhyung loses the boy every morning and every night.

One night, he asks, “How can I remember you when I’m awake?” How can I keep you, he thinks. How do I stop losing you?

And the beautiful boy says, “Give me a name, Minhyung Hyung.”

It begins with the windows.

* * *

Seoul during the autumn has been conquered by glacial winds, turtle necks, and double-breasted blazer coats. He is in a café with Jeno, sitting away from the crowd of couples that have infiltrated every other coffee shop in the city. Gwanghwamun’s healthy red and orange foliage peeps from the corner of his eyes. He’s ordered a Caffè Americano which sits half-finished on the glass table between them.

He’s not much of a coffee drinker but he’s been told Lee Minhyung drinks this kind of stuff as if it is God’s nectar so he drinks it too. Maybe if he eats the food Lee Minhyung eats and does the things Lee Minhyung does and live the way Lee Minhyung had lived, the cavern inside his brain will fill itself. Jeno has ordered a hot chocolate which Minhyung thinks is a disguise for diabetes in a cup.

“How are you, Hyung?” Jeno says but Minhyung knows what he means to say is: do you remember us yet? Have you recovered your memories yet? Have you returned to the Lee Minhyung we want you to be?

“I’m fine, Jeno-ah,” he replies and plasters on the smile he’s seen in pictures. “Where’s Jaemin? Aren’t you guys always together?”

“He’s in Jeju visiting a friend or something. I didn’t even know he had friends in Jeju.”

Minhyung nods. Then it is quiet. The nearest couple sitting behind them are discussing their vacation plans to New York. He wonders if he’s ever been. Probably. Most likely.

“Has Imo…mentioned anything?”

“About the December fundraiser?”

The cup in Jeno’s hand stops halfway to his mouth. For an entire millisecond, it stays in the air between his mouth and the table. Then he says, “Yes, my parents want to know if she has decided on a date yet,” and that is that.

That night, in bed with the moon high and round and white in the November evening, Minhyung thinks of that millisecond. For the entire night, it is the only thing he can think of. It ends up plaguing him for the entire week before it too departs the way autumn does in Seoul.

* * *

Minhyung wakes to Bach. Sometimes Bach is Mozart and Chopin and Yiruma. Sometimes it is some obscure KPOP song. He sits by the leg of the piano as he always does. The organized dramatic chaos that is Toccata and Fugue in D minor runs strong in his veins. His heart beats with the ominous melody until it stops altogether. The chair slides backward and the beautiful boy falls into his arms—his naked skin hot against Minhyung’s.

“Wait for me,” Minhyung says but the boy has already gone.

* * *

In March, Minhyung seals his first major contract with a particularly troublesome startup company in China. It generates the kind of numbers everyone wants and he hears: Of course, as expected from our Young Master—as expected from Lee Minhyung.

The same night, he gets pissed drunk at an unknown bar on an unknown street until he is stumbling and vomiting in the sort of alleyway one will see on the news when the anchors are discussing homicide cases. In between two garbage bags that have become his throne, he wonders if he has finally succeeded in being the Lee Minhyung everyone wants him to be.

It is Jaemin who finds him and it is Jaemin who ends up caring for him the entire night which is surprising. It’s not that Jaemin is exceptionally obvious with his avoidance of Minhyung but he had been under the impression Jaemin would rather not interact with him if he can help it.

The following morning is filled with stuttered sentences and awkward glances. Even so, it feels like they’ve reached some sort of tentative comradery. Somehow, it is a thought that makes Minhyung happier than the damn contract.

* * *

Exactly two days before his 22nd birthday he receives the following e-mail in English:

**SUBJECT: Pipe Maintenance  
** Dear Mr. Minhyung Lee (2601),

Because of a burst pipe on the 16th floor of Three Harbour Green, water services will be unavailable this Friday, August 1st, from the hours of 1:00 AM to 6:00 AM for maintenance. Please make the proper arrangements. We extend our sincerest apologies for any inconvenience caused. For further questions, please do not hesitate to contact our building superintendent, Mr. Michael Brown.

Best regards,  
Three Harbour Green  
Management Team  
277 Thurlow St  
Vancouver, BC

* * *

On the flight to Vancouver, Minhyung turns his phone off even without the prompting of the flight attendants. It is August 2nd and it is his birthday. He is playing disappearance while his mother has thrown him a huge birthday party to celebrate his recovery though there is nothing to celebrate.

It takes 10 hours to travel between Seoul and Vancouver. In these 10 hours, Minhyung recites the e-mail in his mind until he can write it out word for word. He thinks of nothing but the e-mail. If he lets his mind wander, he is afraid he will forget why he is on an impromptu trip to Canada in the first place.

He arrives in the early morning before the sun has risen. August in Canada feels like early spring in Seoul—all cool winds and breezy dancing red maple trees. He catches a taxi from an Asian man who rants about his son’s studies on the way to the condo and while he has adopted Minhyung’s apparent penchant to start conversations with everyone and anyone, this morning, he finds that he has no words left in him.

Three Harbour Green is a luxury condominium with a design one might find in sci-fi films. It sits facing Vancouver Harbour with its blue glass and futuristic architecture and clear surfaces that glow gold at night and when he approaches the double glass door in which it is opened by the doorman who greets him with, “Welcome Back, Mr. Lee. It’s been a while!” he finds himself replying, “It’s been a while hasn’t it, William?” even without looking at the name tag.

He takes the elevator to the 26th floor. He counts the numbers in his head. 2,3,4…24,25, and when he reaches the 26th floor, the elevator sounds a ring into the air, not unlike the gavel of a judge.

2601 is one of the two complexes on the 26th floor. The large polished wooden door that stands between him and the inside spans the size of three regular doors with a keypad attached to where a knob is supposed to be. This keypad glares at him in the dimly lit hallway with its neon green numbers and silver covering. He runs his fingers over the contraption and enters 0-6-0-6. It opens just as he expects it to and he enters.

2601 is a glass castle. Every wall in the complex has been demolished to be replaced with elegant glass windows. He sees Stanley Park with its red maple trees. He sees the Lions Gate Bridge with its green tower. The majestic ranges of Grouse Mountain greet him in the distance. The sun rises on the horizon of Vancouver Harbour reflecting blue in the waters. 

His feet bring him to the room at the end of the long corridor passing the master’s bedroom, the sitting room, the open kitchen, the library, and the study.

He opens the door, and then he is in a nursery. Although painted baby blue with white hues that mimics contrails and clouds, it is now bathe in the warm summery orange glare of the rising sun. In the direct sunlight, there is a barren white cradle covered in dust, and when he approaches it, similar to a bystander who has encroached upon the scene of an accident, he discovers, inside the abandoned bed, there is a small box, and inside it, there is a pair of platinum rings and wrapped around the bands, threading from one circle to the other, there is a letter.

* * *

Again, he finds himself in the room. There is no Bach, no Mozart, no Yiruma, and no KPOP pieces. There is no window, no bed, and no piano. There is only his existence and his name on his lips and he whispers with longing, with yearning, "Donghyuck. Lee Donghyuck," and he replies with the voice he has dared forgotten, "Thank you, Minhyung Hyung." 

He has finally come home.

* * *

The compass I’ve always been following,

The dream I’ve always been chasing—

Let’s only walk on the flower road from now on,  
Lee Donghyuck.

Always Yours,  
Minhyung Hyung


	18. Chapter 18

Lee Minhyung is shaking. His knuckles have turned white from where his hands are grasped onto the leather steering wheel. Seoul’s brilliant evening skyline surges by him. Everything around him has become an amalgamation of colors until he sees only streaks, blurs, hazy images like static from an old television.

There exists anger that is more than the increase of adrenaline in your system. It’s more than rage, more than betrayal, more than the turbulent pulsation of blood against your vein and the strange almost deranged rap of his heart hitting his chest walls again and again as if it has become a prisoner inside the very thing that is protecting it.

This anger—this chaos, exists in that lawless place void of reason and rationality. It’s the last blow in the ring, the last jab of a knife—the moments before you take the life of a man. Lee Minhyung can kill a man. Lee Minhyung has lost his mind.

He drives into bustling Yeouido. It teems with its colossal skyscrapers and glistening glasses and overworked office workers. His car skids in front of the tallest building of them all—this 90-floor monstrous block of cement and glass and steel towering over all the other buildings as a constant reminder of its superiority.

He wants to tear it down. He wants to tear it all down—this false image of fake promises and all its sinister implications—to hell with it all. The bumper of his car knocks into the garbage can in front of the rotating doors. It scratches a long thin line into the metal of the hood, sending debris and waste into the air.

Trash—everything and everyone around him—filthy, dirty, putrid trash. He pushes past the stunned doorman who is still trying to make sense of what he has seen. And if the barreling of Minhyung's Mercedes into the can had not been enough to warn the poor unsuspecting employees of Lee Conglomerate, the absolute rage in his eyes is all the indication they need to get out of his path as he storms his way to the 90th floor, leaving the trails of a furious storm in the making.

The elevator opens to a single long glass corridor. It is transparent in all four sides so that if he were to look down, he would be faced with the cold frigid waters of the Hangang shuffling along the bank. Above him, the stars gleam aloft the city’s financial district.

He barges into the office. The wide wooden double doors he’d pushed into the wall cracks with the pop and power of gunshots fired into the air and there she is, sitting behind that damn ebony table in her damn agar-wooded chair as if she were a queen looking over her invincible empire.

He bites his teeth. His masseter muscle juts from the side of his face, defining his jaws. It locks the little self-restraint he still has left circling in his system. He storms to the middle of the room. He stands just before the small ledge that partitions the crowd of imported Italian leather couches and antique red Persian rug from the looming paramount presence of his mother.

“Where is he?”

Minhyung sees the moment she stiffens—that one millisecond that brings him back to that chilly autumn day with Jeno at the café by Gwanghwamun. She removes her thin-rimmed glasses and she says, “Minhyung, use your words. Your inarticulacy is unsightly.”

He snarls. His fingers curl into his palms cutting crescent moons onto the skin. It draws beads of red trickling down his wrist. He forces his fists into his pockets and he says, “What’s unsightly is the fact you've decided to fabricate the last year and a half to manipulate me into the son you’ve always wanted. Where did you take him?”

The flash of guilt he sees is gone as soon as it appears. He takes it as being caught in the act. She brings her thumb and pointer finger to her temple. The diamonds and precious jewels reflect the chandelier and all its radiant brilliance. She says, “Why do you think I’ve taken him? Maybe he left on his own free will, has that ever occurred to you, Minhyung-ah?”

He lunges. His feet cross the sacred line demarking ruler and subject. He slams his palm onto the ebony wood. Blood smears across the dark lacquered surface. He says, “Donghyuck wouldn’t do that to me. He would never—“

“And why wouldn’t he?” she says. Her quick disruption severs his thoughts. His brain throbs inside his cranium. “Did you believe he was ever happy in this family? In this society?”

And Minhyung wants to retaliate. He wants to say, of course, he was happy. Of course, Donghyuck was happy with him. He had given him the entire world, why wouldn’t he be happy? How couldn’t he? What more does he have to give, what more does he have to sacrifice to possess the existence that is Lee Donghyuck?

All these words inside his throat, all these reasons he has to give, all the things Donghyuck had promised him, and yet the only thing that escapes is this weak, pathetic, sound that forces its way from his trachea.

She rises from her chair. The wood drags against the smooth floor—this sharp and shrill ringing that echoes in his ears. Her hands blanket his clenched fists. These pair of hands, wrinkled and jewelry adorned, had held him once. In the future, 8 years from now, these same damn hands with its manicured nails and diamonds and gems signing million-dollar contracts will continue to haunt him for nights, but for now, he can only focus on the deep hollow gaze boring into him.

“Do you know what people called him behind his back?” she says. “Lee Minhyung’s bitch. Lee Minhyung’s cock slut. Your beloved Lee Donghyuck—reduced to a whore who fucked his way up. Did you know this, Minhyung?”

She’s ruthless and merciless. Her every word drives stakes into his ribs. He is breathless with agony. He grimaces, he tells her to stop. She advances. She is a tornado, a hurricane, a cyclone, wreaking havoc and destruction, scrambling his mind. Her voice, so disgustingly soft and sweet, compared to the awful hideous words stays with him.

“Of course, you didn’t. You were so caught up in your own selfish, self-centered, foolish fantasy, you couldn’t even protect him as Lee Conglomerate’s heir. Yet, you thought you could protect him without your title, in a country halfway across the world amongst foreign faces. You, who had always lived as Lee Family’s illustrious Lee Minhyung, who always did whatever he wanted regardless of the consequences, regardless of the people around him.”

He rips his hands away. He stumbles over the ledge. His vision swims black, then red, then black again. He says, “What are you saying?”

She walks to him. The Persian rugs muffle the sound of her heels. And even though he wants to run with every step she takes, he is paralyzed with fear and doubt. He has missed a step. He’s missed a step and now he has fallen into the monster’s cavernous mouth. Strange pictures shuffle inside his head in an even stranger rhythm. He is nauseous. He thinks he might vomit.

She pulls him to the nearest couch, forces him to sit, and runs her hand over his wet forehead. She says, “Where did you think you got the money to purchase that condo? Where were you going to get the money to support the three of you? Were you going to take a regular office job and live as a regular person? You? Our Lee Minhyung?”

He’s forgotten how to breathe. His heart pulses in his neck. He looks down at his hand. They are bloody. Red, blue, and green from where his veins protrude through the pale skin.

“100 billion won, Lee Minhyung. That’s the price of your love. Even after I’ve told you time after time how delicate things have been. Still, you went ahead to do the things you did because, in your eyes, the only person that ever mattered is Lee Donghyuck. Forget the lives of those we hold in our hands. Forget the 1200 employees we furloughed. Forget the company your father died for. Compared to your precious Lee Donghyuck, everyone and everything is worthless. Isn’t that what you thought when you decided to embezzle money from the company, my dear son?”

Lee Minhyung has missed a step.

* * *

He wakes to the familiar walls of Asan Medical Center. It is not the pristine whiteness that give it away but the damn sheets that he had obsessed over months ago. They scratch rough on his skin, and in the places they touch, it itches with annoyance. Namsan Tower glistens in the distance upon which its red and green glares distinctly among the glass jungle.

His head aches. Someone must’ve pried it away from his skull. Then they must’ve sawed it into multiple parts before piecing it back. These divorced fragments will swim in his head and they will try to fit itself again but it will never be the same.

He sleeps. A nurse wakes him. She starts an IV. Some electrolytes to restore your energy, she says. She goes and he sleeps. Someone cards their fingers through his hair. He feels cool platinum and gold against his forehead—his mother. He pretends to sleep even if he is awake until he does fall asleep for real.

He wakes in the afternoon. An elderly man is sitting in the couches in front of him. His short feet are propped on the glass table. He recognizes the salt and pepper hair, the belly, and the flesh threatening to explode from his tight dress shirt belonging to Mr. Ko of K Group. Next to him, there is a younger man who looks like he does boxing during his free time. He’s wearing an earpiece. Mr. Ko’s bodyguard, he deduces.

“Quite a scene you’ve caused last night, young man,” Mr. Ko says. He pulls a thin box from his jacket. From this thin metal box, he pulls out a fat cigar. His security guard lights it up. The smoke swims above him. He’s bathed in a white cloud. The room smells of Cuban spice. “You’re all over the tabloids. Young Master Lee Minhyung has lost his mind, they say.”

His patronizing tone sickens him. He’s never been fond of Mr. Ko from the times he’s seen him during fundraisers and functions, with Eunji on his arms, paraded around like a trophy.

He looks down at his hands. He’s reopened the bandages. Red seeps into the neatly folded white. He focuses on this jarring contrast even if his heart has adopted an uncontrollable rhythm.

“Of course, I had to call up Madame Lee to see what the fuss was all about,” he gives a puff. “You know, there’s nothing she won’t tell me after the little stunt you pulled two years ago. I had to bail her out you know. She came to me begging on her knees, can you imagine? I’ll have to thank you for that, though. If it weren’t for you, I would’ve never got to witness The Great Madame Lee on her knees like a panhandler. There’s something so sorrowful yet satisfying to see someone of her status fall so hard.”

His hand burns hot but his body burns cold. He’s sweating—big juicy droplets sinking from his temples.

“Well, seeing how sincere she was, I decided to help her. Gave her a loan, got the law off her back, had the whole thing buried—the whole shebang. Your mother, she really adores you, you know? I mean really. If everything had gone to shits, she would’ve taken the blame for you. I don’t understand her. If I had a good-for-nothing son like you, I would’ve beaten the good manners into you. But you know, she really loves you. And I’ve always been a sentimental person—I am. Are you listening to me, kid? Have you gone mute too?”

“Fuck off.”

Mr. Ko guffaws. His belly trembles with every breath he takes. He makes a big show of wiping his tears away and he says, “I like you, kid.” He stands up, his short pudgy legs resembling mini sausages and he waddles his way to the end of the bed.

“Which is why I’m here to collect the debt your family owes me. Eunji—you know my daughter, Eunji—the little bitch got herself knocked up. I’ve always known she was like her mother—useless whore she was—but you know, you know I had faith in her but she went ahead and let herself get fucked over by some country boy. Of course, that boy is out of the picture, I made sure of that, and I would’ve beaten the damn baby out of her if she hadn’t been caught going to the fucking doctors by the fucking tabloids. Eunji—she’s stupid and useless like that, son, but you know, she’ll make a good fuck. Probably even better than that boy. Don’t look at me like that, you know which boy I’m talking about—the one with those cock sucking lips. Tell me, is he really that good you would screw your own mother over like that?”

Minhyung lunges. Arms aiming between eyes, something sharp tears from his skin. His intravenous has been segregated. In shrill screeching like nails on a chalkboard, the pole drags into the floor. It resounds from all four walls. The world turns. He sees the floor. His shoulders burn from where the guard has forced his arms into his back. His face stains red—blood that had soar across the air when he’d ripped the intravenous. Lee Minhyung has really lost his mind. Lee Minhyung can kill a man.

“Well, you probably know where I’m getting at. So how about it, sonny. If you don’t want to be Lee Family’s son, why don’t you be K Group’s son-in-law?” Mr. Ko says. His unphased expression births something evil in Minhyung’s heart. “If you need any more incentive, how about I dig up that little whore for you? I wouldn’t mind having someone as pretty as him on my arm. Fuck, I’m getting hard just thinking about it.”

He makes an obscene sound that feeds the abyss in his chest and will haunt Minhyung for days. He fights against the colossal body on top of his, twisting his joints and his limbs until he hears a pop and he feels his bones slide against each other with a sickening crack.

He growls—this savage and barbarous sound detonating from his throat, not unlike a rabid dog and he says, “I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll fucking _kill you, you son of a bitch!”_ and as soon as the words leave his mouth, his face is thrust into the cold floor until he tastes dirt and dust on his tongue.

He spits onto the polished leather shoes in front of him, letting out a groan when he’s kicked in the face for his offense. He tastes metallic in his mouth and sees red behind his eyes and he hears, “Let’s make a deal. People like us, we’re good at that, aren’t we? You marry my dear Eunji and I’ll pretend you didn’t steal 100 billion won from your flesh and blood. I’ll even throw in a special deal just for you—I won’t touch your little cocksucker if you be the obedient dog you should have been in the first place. How about it, Lee Minhyung? Let’s see how much your love is worth.”

* * *

Night falls. His arm is in a sling. The taunting headache is exacerbated by his hazy thoughts. He swims in static noise. The dark accompanies him. Namsan Tower’s glares mock him. He sees nothing but the damn red tower emerging just in front of the mountains and he hears nothing but the continuous buzz of a silent room. He is still tasting iron.

The door slides open. Light filters in from the halls. The door closes and it disappears. Eunji walks in. She’s wearing a flowery summery dress. Even in the dark, he sees the slightest bump on her stomach. She falls to her knees in front of him and she’s weeping and she’s saying, “I’m sorry, Minhyung-ah, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” repeatedly like a broken cuckoo clock but all Minhyung wants is for her to shut up, so he grabs the glass cup next to him, chucks it into the space between them, and like fireworks, it explodes, raining onto the floor and her dress in shimmering microscopic pieces.

He storms the path between them. The glass cuts into the soles of his feet leaving a trail of plasma with every step he takes. He grabs Eunji, slams her against the wall and stares at her with dilated eyes and she stares back, frightened and nervous, and he realizes the dampness on the floor isn’t from the water. She’s peed her herself.

Minhyung has terrorized her to the point she felt the need to respond in the most basic of human senses and just the thought of that is enough to snap him from his possessed state. He'd thrown a glass cup at Ko Eunji. He’d slammed a pregnant woman against the wall. He shoves her out. He runs to his bed. He curls into himself. He calls for Donghyuck, again and again, the way Eunji had, but only the silence greets him.

In the air, there is the smell of blood. In the air, there is the smell of urine. 


	19. Chapter 19

The thing is, Lee Minhyung is sick. He’s been sick for the longest time. And for as long as he is Lee Minhyung, he will always be sick. His malady begins with summer—that sweltering heat of August when it had seemed like the slightest breath of air could light the sky on fire.

He is 3. It is the late afternoon and he’d only woken from his afternoon nap. In a few minutes, the maids will be there to feed him but he’s not feeling particularly hungry, so he toddles his way down the deserted halls. A monarch butterfly had managed to sneak its way into the mansion. It lands on his nose before it flies away in a flutter of orange and black.

He follows it—this delicate and almost transparent thing fluttering in the air. Years later, he’ll realize there had been no butterfly but for now, he pursues it down the barren halls, around sharp corners, up and down the stairs, until the butterfly vanishes from thin air and he finds himself standing in front of his father’s study.

The door is slightly opened, just enough for his little body to slip in, and when he does, when he crosses that barrier, it’s not the body that he sees first, but the floor of cash scattered in this multicolored kaleidoscope pattern. He’d only noticed the body when the intricate wooden beams of the ceiling creaked with the weight of his father. He’d only noticed it because when the wind blew from the opened windows, there was a spot that remained hot because of the body.

He’s leveled with his father’s naked feet, dangling inches from the ground as if he is levitating, and he doesn’t want to look up because if he does, he’ll know the degree at which a neck can bend. So, he stands there with the summer wind and the roasting heat and the Monet-esque floor until the maid finds him.

And it is a miracle they’d managed to resuscitate him because even at 3, Minhyung had known his father had gone to a place he couldn’t follow. And maybe he had gone for just a moment and left what was left of himself in that place before they’d pulled him back. Had he known the same company he lived for was going to kill him? Had he wanted to go on his terms? Before his humanity left him? It doesn’t matter. In 8 years, he will die for the same company he’d tried killing himself over.

His sickness begins with the blazing heat of summer, in that hyacinth scented study, with his father’s lifeless body dangling from the ceiling like a fish in the market. 

* * *

Fate does not exist. The world is controlled by deliberate meetings. It had been a commission that snowballed it all. Minhyung’s father was an artist. He wasn’t an especially good artist but he’d been good enough to snag a project with the company. They’d fell in love and he’d been willing to give up the peaceful days for Minhyung’s mother who, with her flesh and blood, had carved a spot in high society for him. He gave up his dreams for an even bigger dream but he hadn’t known the price he would’ve had to pay.

Minhyung had known this. And as much as he is his mother’s son, he is also his father’s son. And he wonders, had his father felt the same oppression he feels when he’d looked from his throne on the 90th floor? It is a hard thing to do—living up to the Lee name that is. What is the worth of human life? Does it exist to serve or to be served? What does it cost to reach the pinnacle of society? Flesh. Blood. A person’s humanity. What does it mean to be a Lee?

Possession—to own.

Lee Conglomerate boasts many possessions. The distinguished Lee Family who seemingly possesses the throne when in truth, it is the conglomerate that possesses them—this 90-story concrete kingdom with its century-old brand dictating their every breath, every choice, every step, what they eat, when they eat, when they sleep, when they _shit._ They call him young master. They call him the heir. The one who will inherit the throne. But Minhyung sees through the bullshit. It’s not him who will possess the company.

It’s the company that will possess him and it’s the company that will kill him one day the same way it killed his father. Lee Minhyung – the identity he cannot live with and the identity he cannot live without. Lee Minhyung who has always been drifting in the wind.

* * *

Another thing: with Donghyuck, it has never been about his unconditional love for Minhyung. It has never been about the way Minhyung responded to him. It has always been about the way he responded to Minhyung. It has always been about the Lee Minhyung-shaped crevice inside of him. This ‘inside,’ that is more than one’s body, more than a heart, more than a soul existing somewhere primordial and outside of one’s humanity.

He is 3 and a half when he meets Donghyuck. At 3 and a half, he begins to carve. And every day since, he chisels and he cleaves and he hacks until his existence is the only one who can fill the abyss he has created. Lee Donghyuck who calls him Minhyung Hyung. Lee Donghyuck who only thinks of his Minhyung Hyung. Lee Donghyuck who is willing to follow him to the end of the world. Lee Donghyuck who everyone knows as his. Lee Donghyuck who lets him be in control. Lee Donghyuck, the only thing he has ever possessed—the only thing he wants to possess.

He obsesses and he calls it devotion.

He possesses and he calls it love.

Possession—to control.

* * *

In the white room, Donghyuck asks him why he’d done it. Why did you hurt Ahjumma, he asks. Why did you steal the money? And Minhyung tangles his fingers into his curls. He pulls him into his chest, away from the sunlight, into the shadows of the bed, and he kisses Donghyuck and he says, “I did it for you, Donghyuck-ah. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you,” and even though they both heard it, he knows there is no truth in the words.

He hadn’t done it for Donghyuck. He hadn’t done it for the baby. He’d done it because he didn’t want to lose the only thing he thought he truly owned so he fought against the thing that threatened his control—that demon that is his legacy with its tendrils chaining and locking him. Maybe Lee Minhyung isn’t made to love. And if he could, this vile love is all he has to give. And the only person who will take this ugly love is Lee Donghyuck.

* * *

_Minhyung is 18. There is only one month left before graduation. He wakes up one winter night from the chill. It happens often. In houses as big as theirs, it is hard for the heat to find its way even with central heating. But when he wakes, it is not the chill that keeps him from falling back to sleep but the itch in his throat. It feels as if he’d swallow a nest full of spiders and now they were all crawling out from his stomach with vengeance._

_He leaves his bed and ventures into the hallway. He goes into Donghyuck’s room. Donghyuck has a bad habit of throwing his arm out in the middle of the night. Often, if Minhyung is still up, he would go into his room to tuck the limb back him. He does this now. When he’s done, he brushes the bangs away from Donghyuck’s face. His fingers linger on the skin. He pulls away._

_He goes to the kitchen. The lights have been turned on and it cloaks the room with a warm ambiance. He pours himself a cup of water and he sits across from his mother who is checking her e-mails. She’s still in her business attire which means she’d only returned. She gives him a glance, her eyes emerging above her glasses, and she says, “Have you thought about what I said?”_

_He finishes his water. “I’m not going to Canada. I’m going to SNU.”_

_“You should at least give me a proper reason, Lee Minhyung.”_

_He goes to refill his cup. The itch in his throat has elevated to a painful burn. When he replies, his voice comes out hoarse. “Donghyuck needs me.”_

_“Donghyuck needs you only because you let him think he does.”_

_“He needs me because I’m the only one who can take care of him,” he says. He throws the cup into the sink. It clashes in a cacophonous drum against the metal as if to finalize his statement. “If you make me go, I’ll take him with me.”_

_Her typing stops. She looks up. There is a dissatisfied expression on her face as if she’d eaten something sour. “Are you going to make him leave everything behind?”_

_“I’m the only one he needs.”_

_“It sounds like you need him more than he needs you.”_

_He turns red, not from embarrassment but anger. He fights back a snarl. “I don’t,” he says, the only two words he manages to find amidst his fury. She looks amused. Her red heels dangle from where she crosses her legs. Somehow, it feels as if she is taunting him._

_“Prove it.”_

_He falls for her trap. One month later, he finds himself in Incheon Airport with a one-way ticket to Vancouver. With everyone busy with classes and meetings, Donghyuck is the only one who skips school to send him off. It doesn’t make much of a difference. Donghyuck is the only one he wants to see. He’d snuck into Minhyung’s bed the previous night, curling into his back like a cat. It had been almost enough for Minhyung to stay. Pride, he’s discovered, is a dangerous thing._

_On the way to the airport, he listens to Donghyuck’s quick chatters. He talks about everything and nothing to fill the silence. His eyes are rimmed red. Minhyung pulls him into an embrace when he begins to choke on every other word. Donghyuck ends up in his lap. “Don’t go, Minhyung Hyung,” he cries into his shoulder and Minhyung hears: I need you Minhyung Hyung, I can’t live without you, I’m nothing without you._

_Lee Minhyung is a sick man._

_Vancouver, he finds, isn’t that much different from Seoul. It’s a city. There’s not much to describe with a city. He doesn’t have much to say about the people either. There’s always such a big distinction between westerners and easterners but, at 18, everyone is the same. He adopts the name, Mark. He flitters between classes. He goes to parties. He gets drunk. He finds a Korean boy. He fucks the Korean boy._

_And in the dark, with his face turned away from Minhyung, it is easy to pretend he is someone else. He’s not Donghyuck. He’ll never be Donghyuck, not with his dirty mouth and dirty touches. But Minhyung thinks of Donghyuck anyway. He fucks hard because it isn’t Donghyuck’s body he is impaling so there is no need to be gentle._

_The boy withers under him in a haze of pleasure and pain like he is in some sort of pornography. He is debauched and ruined, his body shape and touches too different to be Donghyuck’s but when he cries in that high pitched nasally tone, he thinks of Donghyuck._

_They’re of the same age but he tells the boy to call him ‘Minhyung Hyung.’ He comes with Donghyuck’s name on his breath. The next day, he completes his transfer to SNU. The following afternoon, he is on the first flight back to Seoul._

_He lands on the evening of the last day of summer. He finds Donghyuck on the roof in his blue sweater. His hands disappear from the sleeves from where he’s pulled them to hide from the chill. He cannot believe he fucked that boy thinking he was Donghyuck when no one comes close to the existence that is Lee Donghyuck._

_His Lee Donghyuck, his beautiful dongsaeng—the existence he wants to conquer and colonize until Lee Minhyung is the only name he knows. Be mine, he says. Be mine in every way you can. Let me possess you. Let me hold you. Let me fall into that crevice and fill the emptiness that I’ve been carving since I’ve laid eyes on you. Be mine, he says. Be my little caged bird._

_Possession—to have._

* * *

It is late evening. Minhyung is sitting by the Hangang. The grass is wet against his back. It stains his shirt a dirty green and brown. The buildings across from him are ablaze. The little squares of light blur in his vision. They look like mini suns. A thousand mini suns glaring down on him.

He is sober. He’s not sure what he might do if he gets intoxicated. Maybe he’ll throw himself into the river. Maybe he’ll try and find Donghyuck. One of the two is more probable. Jaemin finds him when the last sun burns out. It’s completely dark now saved for the lone lamp in front of him. He sits next to him, dirtying his stylish jeans.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” he says.

Jaemin runs his fingers through his hair. Then he wrings his hands and he says, “Couldn’t find the right timing.”

Time, what a powerful and versatile entity it is. The thing everyone hungers for. The ultimate cure. The primordial excuse. There wouldn’t be any tragedies or bad decisions if there is ever a right time for any action. The Lee Minhyung from a few years ago would have punched him. The Lee Minhyung of today only wants to repay his debts.

“He’s doing well. Don’t worry.”

Jaemin’s admittance doesn’t surprise him. Rather, he can’t bring himself to feel anything but remorse for the man he has ruined. He doesn’t have the right to feel betrayed or angry or cheated. The him now, who thought he had done everything to protect him, and the him then, who had done everything to destroy him. He struggles to find a midway. He loses himself.

“I messed up, Jaemin. I can’t face him. I don’t have the courage to. I don’t have the right to,” he says and he realizes he’s crying now. These ugly tears that run cold under the August wind. The nerve of him, he thinks. The audacity he has to cry when he deserves to repent for the sins he’s committed. The crickets chirp loud in the night. Jaemin holds him and he thinks of those days where’d he sought comfort in Donghyuck’s arms because he’d thought he’d been entitled to them.

When he’d thought everything that is Lee Donghyuck belonged to him.

* * *

“Hyung is getting married.”

They’re sitting on the piano and they’re gazing into the nothingness beyond the windows. Their legs swing inches from the ground. Donghyuck’s head lies on his shoulder. He tries to keep this moment so that he will not forget when he wakes. Remember this heat, he thinks. Remember his scent. Remember the way he loves you.

“Will you forgive Hyung?”

It begins with the window.

* * *

Lee Minhyung weds Ko Eunji on a beautiful autumn afternoon with tame zephyrs and pleasant skies. In the ballroom of the grand Shilla surrounded by white peonies and calla lilies, he says his vows and she says hers. They exchange golden wedding bands that glimmer gloriously under the diamond chandelier.

Together, with her small pale hands in his, they walk down the aisle to the congratulations of strange faces in strange voices. Through the pictures, the media, and the good wishes he transforms himself into the Lee Minhyung he should have been from the beginning. 

He thinks of Donghyuck though he wishes Donghyuck will not think of him. He hopes Donghyuck will not cry, will not hurt, will not pain for someone as wretched as him. This is the price of the debt he owes.

And for the next ten years, he will know just how grave the extent of his crime is.


	20. Chapter 20

_Minhyung is three and a half. It’s difficult to talk. He finds it exhausting—the act of moving his mouth to form shapes and sounds and words. He feels as if he is standing on cracked ice and each syllable he says will create another fissure into the delicate slate. An entire sentence can dismantle the glacial sending him into the arctic lake. He doesn’t want to fall so he doesn’t speak._

_For two full seasons, through autumn and winter, he keeps his mouth shut, caught in the repercussions from his father’s suicide attempt and his mother’s growing depression. When there is the media to control and a company to manage, the silence of a child remains as an afterthought. If there is no one to listen to him, then there is no reason for him to talk._

_Spring of the following year comes quick._ _He’s sitting in the back porch focused on the bees hovering the hyacinth patches when he is pulled away by a maid. In the foyer, his mother stands behind his father with a look that suggests she’d eaten a spoiled orange. Next to his father, he sees the driver Ahjussi who is holding a red bundle in his arms._

_His father crouches to his level to smooth the hair behind his head but he is focused on his father’s neck. The markings have disappeared now but for many months after the incident, his father had sported a thin welt on his skin, bruised red and purple like the hyacinths in the garden and even though he’d hid it under his high collar shirts and suit jackets, it had been the only thing he'd thought of for days—that skinny line coiling around his thick neck, distinct on his father’s pale skin like a collar similar to Horangi’s._

_“Minhyung,” his father says, picking him up from the ground with a strength that contrasts the dead weight he’d witnessed that summer afternoon. “This is Donghyuck. He will be staying with us from now on. You’re a Hyung now. Treat him well,” he continues. He peers into the red bundle to face the bright wide eyes of Lee Donghyuck. His red blanket remains vivid behind his pupils, stark and harsh against walls of white marble. The death of winter breaches the air and he comes to an understanding._

_I’ll take care of you, he thinks. Donghyuck curls his pudgy fingers around his hands like vines to an abandoned building, as if in agreement. A sort of kinship breeds within him._

_You, who have been left behind too, I’ll take care of you, Donghyuck-ah._

* * *

They’ve moved into a penthouse in Gangnam. A gift, Mr. Ko had told them, to celebrate their matrimony. It’s a cold penthouse. All white walls with metal and silver and impractical decorations littered across the space to show off wealth. Lee Minhyung has become a prisoner in his own house though Eunji’s shared sentiments give him a sort of comfort. They haven’t talked about that night in the hospital where’d he been two seconds away from crossing a line he would’ve never been able to return from. She doesn’t seem too keen to seek his apology either. Whether that is from her guilt or if she thinks she deserves Minhyung’s violence, is another mystery.

One night, by the kitchen island, Eunji joins him. He is nursing a Grey Goose with Gangnam alive below them. It’s been two months since their wedding and they haven’t so much as exchange anything more than polite greetings. She struggles to get herself onto the stool which had been designed as an art piece rather than furniture. By the time she succeeds, she is huffing from exertion. Minhyung pours her a cup of water. He slides it across the island. Her astonished face says enough about his attitude in the last few months.

She thanks him. It is quiet again. While Eunji avoids his eyes, he takes the time to look at her. His eyes traverses her pretty face and luscious locks, the swell of her abdomen, the way she is slightly trembling. In the middle of this, he thinks of all the times he’d ignored her even when her retching had been audible through the bathroom door.

“Someone said ginger tea is good for morning nausea,” he says. He focuses on his folded hands. She doesn’t ask him how he knows. The answer is obvious. He doesn't say more.The pain of recalling the days where Donghyuck had existed in his life and how he’d cared for him because he’d thought he was the only one capable of doing so still strikes him with torment.

“Thank you,” she says, these two simple words overflowing with a different sort of gratitude. He acknowledges it though he doesn't accept it. You shouldn't thank a criminal for serving their sentence. 

Out of all the words in the world, the phrase ‘thank you’ is the last sentence Lee Minhyung deserves.

* * *

_Minhyung is five. Almost six. He is in one of the courtyards with Donghyuck and Horangi. He’s been tasked to look after Donghyuck who had only turned 3 last week while the maid went to fetch their lunch. He is sweating and he wants to return inside where it is nice and cool. The sun has never been a friend of his despite being a summer baby._

_He watches Donghyuck from the steps leading into the sitting room. The cement is rough underneath his skin. There are ants crawling in between the cracks. It is the only shady part of the courtyard. Ahead, on the patches of grass, Donghyuck rolls around with Horangi. His yellow t-shirt and the Samoyed’s white fur stands out amongst the rich greens._

_He catches Minhyung’s eyes and he shouts, “Hyung,” his voice terrifically loud in the air dominated by the calls of the cicadas. Horangi barks with joy when he joins them. The leather collar is loose on his neck. It shifts chaotically when he moves. Minhyung relieves him by removing the collar. But now that it is in his hands, he has no desire to put it aside._

_Instead, his hands begin to move to Donghyuck who has climbed into his lap. He’s resting his tiny head on Minhyung’s chest. His thumb is in his mouth. Minhyung removes the wet appendage and he says, “Your hands are dirty, Donghyuck-ah.”_

_Donghyuck wipes his thumb on Minhyung’s shirt leaving saliva and germs on the white fabric and he says, “Ok.” Minhyung runs his hand through Donghyuck’s sweaty hair. It’s curly and chaotic from his ministration and the heat._

_“You listen to Hyung so well. I’ll give you a present,” he says clasping Horangi’s collar onto Donghyuck’s neck. He pulls the leather slightly taut, leaving a space so that it will not hinder Donghyuck’s movement. He thinks of that hot summer afternoon, that rope that had extended startlingly straight, wrapped around his father’s neck like a cobra, that beautiful red mark, how brilliant it was on his father’s white skin. Minhyung hugs Donghyuck._

_“You are so cute.”_

_Donghyuck touches the collar. He looks at Horangi who has fallen asleep in the shades._

_“Horangi or Donghyuck?”_

_Minhyung kisses Donghyuck’s nose._

_“You. You’re my favorite Lee Donghyuck,” he says and Donghyuck beams, teeth, and gum._

_Summer is in his eyes and the June sun burns hot on their flesh._

* * *

It is not that the conversation by the kitchen island had changed the precarious dynamics between them but Minhyung has come to accept that loneliness is quite the horrid thing.

When he’s not distracted by all the paper works waiting for his signature or the meetings anticipating his opinions, his mind often begins to wander in the appalling way it does until he is left with tremors amongst agitation in his dark and lonely study.

Following that night, they’ve developed an understanding and comradery between them. Minhyung discovers friendship shouldn’t have to be sacrificed during his time of atonement. Even if he doesn’t deserve the comforts of their late-night conversations, then for Eunji, who has lost as much as he did.

Eunji's intuitiveness surprises him but also expected considering recent events. They've both been forced to grow into the adults everyone wants them to be. That bridge connecting the innocence of youth and the impurity of adulthood, how strange it is that crossing it would be so traumatic. Rather than walking, it feels as if they’ve both been flung into the crosswalks of reality.

Perhaps, they are more similar than he’d thought they were. Chess pieces on the board forced to play the game or risk dying. In the end, it doesn’t matter. There are no winners in this game. It’s a slow race to see who will die first. 

One night, sitting in front of the T.V. broadcasting the sceneries of Jeju-do, specifically, some town named after the sun, with her head on his shoulder, she says, “Love is a crime for people like us.” Her words which have strung not a question, but a statement, so undeniably true and absolute, once entering his system, feels like he’d swallowed the bones of a fish.

He says, “Tell me about him,” and she tells him about the boy from Gyeongju who'd wanted to be a musician, who'd been the eldest out of his siblings, who’d seemed cold at first but had a heart of gold—that beautiful boy she’d ruined.

Then, after she is done, she cries into his chest, where her weeping overwhelms the T.V., and her tiny swollen body shakes in his arms, broken and battered, and she says, “I miss him. I miss him so much. I miss him, Minhyung-ah.”

He doesn’t ask what has become of that boy, what retribution he’d suffered for loving the wrong person _—_ dead or alive, none of that matters. It will not change a thing. 

That thing called love, how divine it is.

That thing called love, how sinful it is.

* * *

_Minhyung is eight. In two weeks, the new semester will begin. He will be going into the third grade. Donghyuck will be attending kindergarten. It is almost midnight and they’ve snuck into the kitchen for a late-night snack. Donghyuck is sitting on the cold tiled floor waiting for Minhyung who is standing on a chair, teetering precariously on the edge as he fishes for the jar of cookies hidden inside the cabinets._

_He finds it behind the bottle of sesame oil. When he’s settled next to Donghyuck, he reaches a hand inside to offer the biggest piece to him. He leaves the open jar in front of Donghyuck. He’s never been one for sweets, preferring savory foods instead._

_Donghyuck munches on the sand-colored snack as if he’d been starved for days. His pink tongue peeps out each time he opens his mouth._ _His front tooth is missing. It had fallen out days ago. In the space, Minhyung sees the fragment of white beginning to fill. Crumbs gather at the edge of Donghyuck's mouth. Minhyung wipes it away with his fingers._

_“Hyung,” he says. Minhyung hums in acknowledgment. “Is school fun?”_

_“It’s horrible, Donghyuck-ah,” he says. The cookie stops halfway to Donghyuck’s mouth. There is a horrified expression etched onto his face. “School is full of selfish people. People like us, we’re different. If someone wants to be your friend, it’s because they want something from you.”_

_“What does that word mean?”_

_“It means they only care about themselves. Selfish people are bad people.”_

_“Oh. But Jeno said –“_

_“You don’t believe your Hyung?”_

_His tone comes out sharper than he’d expected but it serves his purpose the same. Donghyuck shakes his head. He brings his arms around his neck and he says, “No! I trust you, Minhyung Hyung. I’m going to warn Jeno tomorrow. I’ll tell him about the shellfish people.”_

_“Selfish, Donghyuck.”_

_Donghyuck nods. He repeats the word still with the wrong pronunciation. Minhyung coos. He pulls away, his half-eaten cookie still in his hand though his face shows his loss of appetite. He thrusts the cookie into Minhyung’s face and he says, “Finish this, Minhyung Hyung,” as he always does with the foods he doesn’t like._

_Minhyung takes it from his fingers with his mouth, that buttery aroma sifting between his teeth, on the roof of his mouth, and under his tongue. It stirs his stomach in the wrong way. He has the strongest urge to vomit. Donghyuck's eyes awaits for him to swallow. He does._

_“Delicious.”_

_The taste of butter cookies—it is quite sweet._

* * *

Eunji gives birth sometime in May. Compared to the nice spring afternoon, the act of giving birth is thoroughly barbaric. The tearing of soft flesh, the high-pitched wails screeching into the antiseptic air, the perpetual river of blood seemingly eternal and infinite.

Standing beside Eunji, gowned up as if he were to perform the delivery himself, it comes to Minhyung, that the events that occur during the birthing process are highly savage and primitive. How cruel and brutal, he thinks, as the baby is severed from Eunji’s body, to give birth to a human being, to thrust them into this unforgiving and turbulent world.

He thinks of Donghyuck, the frail body he wears, with his long thin legs that seem too sacred to even touch the dirty ground. He was only a few weeks along when he’d left so he hadn’t had the chance to see the swell of his abdomen. That, he reckons is part of his punishment.

He only wishes he had been by his side, to assist him onto chairs, to accompany him to doctor’s visits, to shop for baby clothes and baby toys, to hold his hands, and to whisper encouragements into his ears during the graceless act they call labor. Thinking of it now, he begins to register the discomfort in his chest, how it cramps as if there isn’t enough space in his ribs.

After the baby is suctioned and wiped and wrapped, he is placed into Eunji’s open arms. Her eyes are half-lidded, her dark bangs wet with sweat, but there is a tender smile on her face when she gazes upon her child.

Minhyung looks away. He leaves the room, discarding the gown and the cap on his way to the bathroom where he dry-heaves into one of the stalls. Only when he looks down does he realize he still has his shoe covers on. 

* * *

The months sail. Minhyung makes steady progress with the recovery of his memories. Meeting up as a quartet remains a burdensome thing. They seem to find peace in one-to-one meetings rather than the group. It’s hard to pretend that the vast space Donghyuck left behind does not exist.

Perhaps more than Jeno who he shares blood with and more than Eunji who he shares a life with, it is Jaemin who he is the closest to. Whether that is because of their shared affection for Donghyuck or because Jaemin has no real obligation to keep in contact with him remains a mystery. 

One afternoon, Jaemin drops by to drag him to the opening of the new Japanese restaurant across the street. Growing up, he’d detested the raw fishy taste of sashimi and sushi but at 23, he's come to appreciate the oceanic aroma coupled with its slimy texture. It is quite addicting and it is true to say that time does change a person’s taste.

The restaurant lies twenty-something stories about the ground. When he peers down, the floors of the marketing department fills his vision. How bizarre it is to know that the livelihood of every person inside that building falls into his hands. The waiter arrives to take their orders. After, he says to Jaemin, “I know you’re busy with university. You don’t have to visit me every day.”

Jaemin scoffs. He offers him an amused smile. He says, “If I don’t come, you’ll probably starve in that office of yours. Why is it always so cold in there anyways? You should get a technician to look at the vents, Hyung. If you get sick on my watch, Donghyuck’s going to skin me alive.”

Minhyung's heart falters at the name, just for a moment. Then, it resumes its consistent beat. It’s nice, he thinks, to be able to talk about Donghyuck as if they are children again. Youth _—_ those adolescent days—he doesn’t miss them but he can’t forget them either.

Though, Jaemin's words blooms in his ribs. The warmth holds him. Even after all this time, even if he can’t be by Minhyung’s side, Donghyuck is still taking care of him in some way. The strange mixture of guilt and happiness corrodes his guts. Noticing his expression, Jaemin scrambles to say, “Anyway, if anything, I get a free meal and you get to see my handsome face.”

At that, Minhyung laughs. With Jaemin, the big things always seem so small. He plays with his napkin. “How are they?” he asks with caution. His eyes shifts through their surroundings. The fear of someone listening on them prevails. He must look pathetic, never mind the shame in his voice. Jaemin, to his credit, reports with nonchalance as if he is talking about the weather.

“They’re fine. You know how Donghyuck is. He attracts people wherever he goes. There are good people around them and the town is always happy to assist him when it comes to Minhyuckie.”

The name of the child he will never get to know still has him breathless the way he’d been the first time Jaemin had told him that night by the Hangang. He couldn’t stop crying then, that evening, under the electric lights of the pole, with the water rushing him by and Jaemin’s arms fixing him to reality, he’d cried until his voice was as scratchy as sand on paper. Lee Donghyuck and Lee Minhyuck, the two people he owes a lifetime of debts to.

“There’s a boy,” Jaemin begins, pausing to assess his expression. And even though Minhyung is aware of his piercing gaze gauging the most minute changes of his facial muscle, it doesn’t stop the flash of resentment in his eyes. It’s hard to tell if the bitterness is for himself or the words he knows Jaemin will say. He’s glad his hands are hiding beneath the table where they have been balled into fists. He curbs his displeasure so that it mimics acceptance. 

He doesn’t know how to wish for Donghyuck’s happiness without him but he doesn’t know how Donghyuck can be happy with him either. What a dreadful deadlock he’s placed himself in. Even so, he wishes there comes a day where he can give Jaemin an authentic response instead of what he knows Jaemin wants to see.

“His name is Wong Yukhei,” he continues, once he realizes Minhyung will not come for his neck. “He’s a good guy and he cares about Donghyuck a lot. Minhyuck too. I heard he recently got into SNU's medical program.” At Minhyung’s silence, he says, “A week after you woke up, I went to Donghyuck and had every intention of bringing him back. I tried to convince him several times after that too, but, Hyung, I think that place can be good for him. He’s not happy, far from it, but I think what he needs the most now isn’t happiness but peace.”

Minhyung accepts the theory for what it is. With his past transgressions in the light and the consequences that come with it, he has no disillusions on his ability to make Donghyuck happy. He doesn’t know if Donghyuck had ever been happy even when he had been by his side or if Minhyung had been so blinded by his desires, he couldn’t recognize his agony for what it is. It's sickening to think of the times he’d wanted to chain Donghyuck to him. Shackle him by Minhyung's side so that they could suffer together in this horrible world.

Shortly after Jaemin’s words, the same waiter returns with their order, elegantly plated on a long wooden platter. He doesn’t ask Jaemin where Donghyuck has gone. He fears he might not be able to control himself from booking the first flight there regardless of his feelings. Jaemin shows no desire to tell him either. Instead, he places a piece of salmon onto Jaemin’s plate, that pink meat, smooth and fresh.

“Let’s eat, Jaemin-ah. I’ll drive you back to campus after.”

* * *

Several nights later, inside the white room, he asks, “What was your happiest moment, Donghyuck-ah?”

Donghyuck clings to his waist. His graceful fingers ghosts his skin. He kisses Minhyung’s neck. He murmurs into the warmness emitting from it, “When I’m with you. I’m the happiest when I’m with you, Minhyung Hyung.”

Somehow, the words don’t bring Minhyung comfort the way he’d expected them to.


	21. Chapter 21

A month after his conversation with Jaemin, Minhyung meets Wong Yukhei. It’s a rainy autumn night. He’s escorting a client out from an old-school bar situated inside a modest alleyway when he steps on it—that thin black wallet with scratches on the faux leather.

He doesn’t know what compels him to open it. When he does, it’s the ID he sees first. The face of a good-looking man stares back. He’s expressionless in the photo but his sincere eyes suggest he is the type of guy who is popular with parents. He reads the name on the ID. Then he looks to the counter where he sees Yukhei who is frantically digging through his backpack.

He has half a mind to drop it. His fingers twitch. He eyes the garbage can. He conjures the conversation he had with Jaemin a month prior. Then, he thinks of Donghyuck. He’s walking before he can change his mind. His hand thrusts the wallet into Yukhei’s sight.

“Hey, I think you dropped this.”

He’s expecting a ‘thank you,’ or a polite handshake. Instead, Yukhei pulls him into a hug. He smells of cheap soju and beer when he speaks into his ears. “Shit, thank you, man. You saved my ass,” he says. He pulls out a couple of bills to hand to the exasperated bartender who walks away muttering to himself.

He is bewildered. He continues to stand there even when Yukhei has put his wallet away. Then he turns to him again and he says, “Thanks again, man. My friend warned me about pickpockets in Seoul and I was so sure someone had taken it. You’re my lifesaver. My entire fortune is in that wallet.”

“You’re not from Seoul?” he asks even if he knows the answer.

Yukhei nods. There’s a slightly sheepish smile on his face. It resembles a puppy. He wonders if Donghyuck likes this kind of face.

“I’m from the country. I actually came for my college orientation.”

He gives a glance at the silver suitcase he has in his hand.

“It’s late and the trains are probably out of service. You need a ride?”

Yukhei’s eyes widen. He shifts the bag on his shoulder. “Shit dude, seriously?”

The fact that he follows him out is shocking enough. He doesn’t dwell on Yukhei’s naivety. He surmises people from the country are more receptive and gullible compared to those from the city. Or maybe it is just Yukhei who is willing to trust strangers in bars in the middle of the night.

He leads Yukhei to his car, loading the luggage into the trunk, then putting in the address of the hostel into the GPS. The windshields sway back and forth every few seconds under the light evening drizzle. Yukhei presses his fingers against the side window. He gazes at the passing streets. Everything has fallen into that blurry hazy atmosphere from the droplets as if they are viewing the world from a filtered lens.

“What are you studying?” he asks, feigning ignorance.

With his eyes still attached to the glass, Yukhei says, “Medicine.”

“At SNU?”

That catches his attention. He turns, wide-eyed.

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess. It’s expensive, isn’t it?”

“It’s fucking expensive. My parents can only afford the tuition for the first year. I feel sorry to even ask for that much. But I’ll make it work somehow. Pick up an extra shift or two. I heard the wage in Seoul is higher than the countryside,” he pauses to look at him. Then he scratches his head. “Sorry, I must be boring you with my poor people talk.”

“That’s fine. I get it.”

He does understand it but not in the way Yukhei does. Judging from Yukhei’s expression, it’s safe to say he doesn’t believe him either. Not when he is dressed in his five-piece suit and driving a car that can cover the aforementioned tuition—twice over.

Rain hits the roof of the car. The sound is muffled by the radio. The back windows are slightly opened leaving the car smelling of petrichor. Still, it is not enough to mask the bitter alcoholic aroma emitting from Yukhei.

“Why’d you drink so much?”

From the corner of his eyes, he sees the way Yukhei fiddles with his phone. Flipping it this way and that. Opening it then closing it. Checking and rechecking his messages.

“Got rejected. He told me he’s not looking for a relationship at the moment. To be honest, I don’t think he’s over his ex.”

“Sorry about that.”

The words are his but he doesn’t know if he has the right to say it. A few years ago, he would’ve felt joy for what they suggest. The implications of Donghyuck’s feelings and what it hints at. That same guilty but euphoric mixture he’d felt back in that Japanese restaurant resurfaces. This time, there is more guilt than glee.

It is then, in that rain scented car with the white noise of the radio in the background, does he realize he is reaching for the impossible. He wants Donghyuck to let him go, yet, he isn’t willing to let Donghyuck go. He wants to keep Donghyuck away, yet, the rope remains tight around his hands.

Even now, Lee Donghyuck is still his caged bird. How can he release him without losing him? He recalls the bird he’d seen outside his window that day at the hospital—near enough for admiration, far enough for freedom.

“It’s fine. I can wait. For that person, I’ll be patient until I become the man he deserves. That’s why I’m going into medicine. I’ve never been interested in the field but it’s a stable career. And I can take care of him if anything happens. Sorry, I’m rambling again. It’s the alcohol. You probably regret giving me a ride. Sorry.”

Yukhei's longwinded explanation evokes a smile from him. He’s reminded of Jaemin’s words. Wong Yukhei is a good man. The rain pelts coarsely. They complete the rest of the journey in silence. Once reaching the small hostel, he opens the trunk for Yukhei who thanks him with another hug. He watches him go, his suitcase rough against the cement road. 

“Hey!”

Yukhei turns to him, curiosity drawn on his handsome face.

“Try sunflowers. Everyone likes them.”

The fluorescent street lights reflect their shadows across the small incline of the road. The rain has stopped but the smell remains. Yukhei gives him a thumbs-up. Then, he is gone. Minhyung returns to his car. He drapes his arms across the wheels. Then he falls into them. He breathes. He starts the car. The realization comes to him when he turns into the highway—they’ve never exchanged names. It doesn’t matter. He has all the information he needs anyway. He calls his secretary.

“Taeil Hyung, I need you to make a check out to SNU’s bursar office. You can take it out of my private funds.”

* * *

Lee Minwoo is a good kid. He never actually spends enough time with him to conclude anything else but he isn’t a bad kid. If he isn’t a bad kid, then he is a good kid. At least that is what everyone tells him. Your son is adorable, sir. You are so lucky to have such a perfect family. Surely, he will grow up to be the successful man we all know he’ll be given his legacy. What a good kid you’ve made.

The last comment upsets him the most. Not because of the connotations but because of the sorrow it causes Eunji. Minhyung has come to terms with his sentencing, but Eunji, who is serving her own, has a harder time making peace with it.

She’s not like him who can harden his expression and take the remarks with a face value. Eunji wears her heart on her sleeve. She is delicate like flowers and silk. He does his best to protect her but his best can only be so much. In the end, it isn’t his battle to fight, but hers.

Ironically, Minwoo learns ‘Appa,’ before ‘Umma.’ The same night, he locks himself inside the study with the excuse of finishing up work. It’s hard to face Eunji in the following days. Eunji, too, shares his sentiments. Although the air is softened when Minwoo utters ‘Umma,’ a few weeks later, he cannot forget the absolute anguish that had graced her face when she’d heard Minwoo call him by the title he doesn’t deserve. The reality is, he has no makings of a father. 

He can hardly recall a time he'd spent more than a few moments with the child. Birthdays, holidays, social events—he could not bring himself to care for them. It'd felt too intimate and so he brings these sentiments with him into the years. 

One night, when he returns home from a particular long day, minutes before midnight, he founds Minwoo curled up on the sofa. There is a stuffed tiger in his arms and a half-eaten birthday cake sits on the kitchen island. He walks to the couch to pick Minwoo up. When he does, he realizes that Minwoo is small. Much smaller than the average 3-year-old. He’s never noticed. The movement stirs Minwoo awake. He rubs his eyes and he says, “Appa?”

He brushes the hair from his face.

“Minwoo-ah, why are you sleeping in the living room? You’ll get sick like this.”

Minwoo falls into his shoulder. The tiger plush hangs from his fingers where it hits his back.

“Birthday. Today is Minwoo’s birthday. You promised.”

The broken phrases are a clear indication of his fatigue as he struggles to keep his eyes open. He takes him to his room. Even when he is in bed, he continues to cling to his neck like a koala. Minhyung pries his hands away.

“I’m sorry. Appa had work today.”

“You have work every day Appa.”

He pulls the cover to Minwoo’s chin, tucks in the sides. Minwoo nuzzles his face into his open hands.

“I’ll make it up to you. Let’s go to the toy shop tomorrow.”

“Ok. Promise?”

He links his pinky around Minwoo’s. He turns on the night light by the wall. He doesn’t stay until Minwoo has fallen asleep. There are proposals to be read, contracts to be signed, and meetings to be scheduled.

When he returns to his office, it feels much colder than the usual chill he’s gotten used to. He feels like he’s forgotten to do something. He stares into the distance, across buildings, and over bridges. A dead city greets him back.

The next day, he is called to Japan.

* * *

Minhyung finds out on an unassuming November afternoon. He is in his mother’s office at the main house digging through shelves and papers for a file when he finds it. Not the file he’d been looking for but another file bearing ominously under the stack of old financial reports as if she’d wanted to normalize it into something she is comfortable with. Stage II adenocarcinoma of the lungs. 

The rest of the report is meaningless to him but he’d seen what he needs to see. He doesn’t understand he is trembling until the papers spill from his hand. They scatter like leaves. Instead of white, he sees blue and green and red and yellow littered in that kaleidoscopic arrangement. It is autumn but the room is stuffy, airless, and stale.

He picks up the papers where one of the sharper edges cuts into his finger. Blood smears on the corner. The report he’d came for has been forgotten. Instead, he drives to the company with the crumpled papers in his hand.

The doors to his mother’s office are left marginally opened. From his position, he can see the short legs of a man dressed casually unlike his mother's usual guests. He’s sitting on one of the couches facing the front which means his mother is sitting on the other side. He catches his mother’s voice and he hears, “Once the deed has been updated to the new owner’s name, I will transfer the rest of the money to you. Don’t hesitate to reach out to me if you need assistance with the move. I know your mother has spent her entire life in Jeju but it is also a good thing that she can be with her family now.”

“I should be thanking you, Madame Lee. I would’ve never thought you would be interested in that small café. If I am honest, I feel quite shameful about the money I am receiving for what it is actually worth.”

The man is about to say more until he catches Minhyung’s eyes from the crack. His mother follows his gaze. Her previously relaxed expression has sharpened with the precision of an apex predator. Minhyung pushes the rest of the door open. Her eyes trail to the papers in his hands. She stands up to extend her hand to the man.

“Thank you again. I’ll be in contact.”

The man shakes it. He bows. On his way out, he gives Minhyung a strange look as one would do when they are conjuring a memory. He flinches when Minhyung meets his eyes. He leaves. Then, it is only Minhyung and his mother. He slaps the papers onto the glass table. The sound is loud in the large quiet room. It competes with the traffic below. She eyes it. Minhyung has no doubt she can recite every word on it.

“What is this?”

“Why do you like asking questions you already have answers to?”

“I’m your son. You didn’t think this was important enough to tell me?”

“You are my son only when it is convenient for you, Minhyung-ah. You give yourself too much credit.”

“Is this the time to be spiteful?”

“It’s not in spite. I’m being practical.” She moves behind her desk. Her beige dress swings with her as she moves. She’s always been a skinny person but now, with the truth out, he sees how weary she has become.

Her cheeks sink into her face. There is no curve, only sharp angles, and jutting bones. The way her clothes hang on her as if it is wearing her instead. Her grey skin, her coarse hair, the hollow look in her eyes. He can’t tear his eyes away from her. This woman who he hates. This woman who he loves.

She smiles at him. “Don’t look at me like that Minhyung-ah. I might think you actually care.” She laughs to herself. “Well, I have always known your father’s smoking habit would eventually come back to bite me. The two of us, we were always going to be the death of each other.”

She scrutinizes the sky.

That cerulean blue—how startlingly beautiful and clear it is.

* * *

Time drifts. Minhyung does too. The seasons give way to one another. The months fall into each other. Everything around him meanders in that slow predictable manner. He is on a slowly moving river, dragged by the stream in the direction of the wind. He is 27.

In late July, he is summoned to Jeju-do to oversee the construction of a new resort. It’s never been under his jurisdiction, however, he doesn’t hate it. Privately, he can admit that he is glad to escape the chaos in Seoul.

The city he’s been stationed to lies on the northwestern part of the island. A day before he is set to return, his car breaks down on the highway connecting the east to the west, where’d he been traveling to meet up with one of their sponsors.

It malfunctions directly in front of a bus station. While waiting for the tow truck, he sees the large public vehicle loop around several times. The digital screen reads “To Sunshine Town,” in neon green. He takes it to kill time. On the empty bus, he passes cedars, junipers, and pine trees. It’s a short ride from the mouth of the highway to the heart of the town.

Sunshine Town is a mundane town with modest people. Compared to the monstrous buildings he is used to, the miniature houses of the village resemble toys. Still, there is harmony in the way they complement each other. Unpretentious, unobtrusive, inconspicuous.

It takes him less than half an hour to circle the main streets. It’s still fairly early in the morning and many of the shops remain close. He envies their freedom. Starting and ending whenever they desire. 

He finds a cliff in the far back roads of the town. This green cliff opens to the strait. The ebb and flow of the water quiet his heart. The wind is cool on his skin. He closes his eyes. He sees Donghyuck. He thinks of all those summers. In the lush hill behind the mansion where they’d slept under that grand oak under filtered light. Where the cicadas flew past their eyes and the afternoon sun had shone onto the side of Donghyuck’s face. How the kind air pulled at his heartstrings. The smell of an early summer began with Donghyuck's smile.

Lee Donghyuck, who exists in every place he’s been, with every thing he’s done. Lee Donghyuck who exists in every month, in every season. Lee Donghyuck, who exists in every breath and every tear. Lee Donghyuck who exists inside of him.

Lee Minhyung’s eyes are full of Donghyuck. His heart is full of Donghyuck. All his warmth and all his gentleness have been given to the existence of Lee Donghyuck. There is nothing left for him to offer to anyone. He buries this unspeakable love into the soils. He leaves.

He finds a café minutes away from the cliff. It’s a homey sort of establishment that resembles someone’s kitchen. Compared to the stylish fancy coffee shops in the city, this one gives off an intimate feeling.

The scattered random decorations that have no correlation to one another, the burst of clashing color schemes, the folded paper cranes dancing outside the door—it all feels very familiar. 

After he places his order, he takes his clementine tea to the table in the back. From his new position, he sees the glimmers of the white shore. How the sea runs green under the light. He pulls the chair out until the waiter stops him. 

“Wait, that seat is—well, actually, never mind. He’s not here anyway.”

He goes away to clean the coffee machine. Minhyung sits. He runs his finger on the rough table. There is a drawing sketched onto the wood in bold black strokes. It’s a clumsy piece of art, done by a child, he assumes.

His fingers trace the two stick figures holding hands. Underneath it, he sees: “Appa is my favorite!” in poor handwriting. His heart flutters at the familiar phrase. He takes a picture of it. Then, he returns his attention to the waters. Even after he finishes, he stays. The sun continues to rise. The traffic increases as it does. In the late afternoon, a tall teenage boy stumbles into the store.

“Shit, I’m late,” he says, throwing his schoolbag over the counter. “Yangyang Hyung, is Haechan Hyung here?”

Yangyang, the waiter who’d served him shakes his head. “He didn’t tell you? He went to Seoul with—“

A ship horns in the distance blocking his next words. It takes Minhyung attention from the conversation and jars him to the flashing messages on his phone. He returns the empty cup to the counter. Then, he leaves. The bell rings after him. He walks away from the café. Before he turns into the bus station, he looks back.

Those colorful paper cranes—how vividly they dance in the wind.


	22. Chapter 22

Sometime between Minwoo’s fourth and fifth birthday, he picks up the piano after having been inspired by the recital they had gone to earlier in the year. In the corner of the living room where large house plants sit in all their verdant green glory, a beautiful German imported piano backs into the wall.

It is a white upright piano, different from the one Donghyuck used to have in his room, but when Minhyung drinks in the black and white keys, the smooth reflective surface, and the clean sharp sounds it emits, he finds it difficult to breathe.

Minwoo has no talent with the instrument. His hands are too small and his fingers are too short to reach the keys with the proper accent and speed. However, Minwoo is a hard worker. Since the start of his education, various nights have been furnished with his clumsy but steadying progressive playing.

He’s not like Donghyuck with the finesse of a virtuoso. Still, on the rare nights he arrives home before the sun has risen again, he would often find himself admiring Minwoo from the comforts of the stiff couches. Days like those, Minwoo would play with a new-found vigor.

Despite his lack of skills, there is something authentic about Minwoo’s honesty and sincerity when he sits in front of the piano. He doesn’t play to impress. The only person he is indulging is himself. Lee Minwoo is a virtuous boy who remains true to himself.

On those deserted nights where even the stars have abandoned the sky, and the graceless and bumbling notes of the piano trespass his study, he wishes he can have an ounce of Minwoo’s resoluteness. His steadfast tenacity—it is a good thing to admire.

* * *

In winter, the comfortable chill of autumn gives way to the bitter cold. A few weeks before the new year, accompanying his mother, he visits the columbarium where his father’s ashes are store.

The Lee’s have always been traditionally Protestant Christians apart from his father, who was a Buddhist. It was the only part of him he retained after he married into the family. He’d been willing to give up his name, his career, and his dreams but had held onto his religion with an almost stubborn resoluteness. The rest of their extended family shunned him, not for his commoner status, but because of his lack of faith. They ridiculed him for his thoughts and beliefs and the way he believed salvation can be obtained through practice instead of one’s fidelity to God.

In Buddhism, there is no God. There is Buddha but Buddha is no God. That was why he’d wanted to kill himself, they said. That sinner, that heathen, that infidel. The godless man who would commit self-murder and no doubt be sent to Hell. To the Lee’s, it wasn’t the accident that killed him. It was his lack of faith. He never understood. What does it take to be saved? That thing called faith. That thing called God.

The columbarium sits on the foot of Bukhansan facing the sky, the earth, and the river. It is a peaceful place with the fragrant smell of incense and the stimulating fresh air of nature. When they climb the stone steps, the soles of their shoes break into the steadying piling snow, crunching into the pristine white.

There are several floors to the columbarium, all of which have been designed to look the same. The high shelves of each floor have been cut into medium-sized squares spanning a third of a meter in diameter and in each square, a name is carved into the marble. The urns in which the ashes are stored varied in shapes and sizes and colors as do the mementos.

His father’s square lies on the lowest floor, away from the sky, away from God—a stark difference from the way he’d lived his entire life on the top of that wretched building. A change of scenery, his mother had told him a long time ago.

Aside from the location, the inside of the square also differs from the rest in its lack of ornament and decoration. There are only two items inside it—a wedding band and a white porcelain urn. On the marble behind, there is his father’s name etched in large bold strokes, though, instead of ‘Lee,’ his mother had decided to retain his father’s original family name. There is no picture.

Inside the cold columbarium surrounded by the ashes of the dead godless people, they pay their respects. His mother’s red scarf strikes distinctly among all the neutral colors of the building. She stretches a thin frail hand on the glass. Her veins run blue and purple under the gray skin bruised from intravenous invasions. She doesn’t cry. Instead, she looks. Feeling as if he is intruding, he recalls his last conversation with her where they’d discussed her funeral arrangements.

She’s decided to be buried in the family mausoleum like the devout Christian she is. Though, he wonders if there is any sincerity in her decision. It’s sad, he thinks. There has never been a happy ending to their love story. Not even in death. He leaves her in her thoughts, walking up a floor where another square lay.

Unlike his father’s, Ahjussi’s place of resting is well adorned. The urn Donghyuck had chosen for him runs a deep cobalt blue. Slight cracks ascend from the side but where it is flawed, gold replaces it. It reminds him of the ocean when one is submerged deep enough to see a glimpse into the abyss but near enough to reach for the light above.

From the marble where his picture has been attached, Ahjussi smiles. His father described it as a good Buddhist smile—the kind that held no desires and no greed. Perhaps that is why he’d been so willing to take Donghyuck in. In that gruesome world of theirs, Ahjussi was a friend.

He opens the square and wipes the dust that has gathered in the corners with his sleeves. Then he adjusts the slightly crooked picture. When he is done, he closes the square and stares at the green paper crane next to the urn where it has yellowed from the years.

His whispered apology vanishes into the flurry of snow outside. He can’t meet Ahjussi’s eyes. He hopes Ahjussi can forgive him for that too.

* * *

These days, he finds it hard to stay focus. He is in New York. In the same hotel suite he’d visited with Donghyuck that November weekend, he stares into the grand magnitude of the Brooklyn Bridge. The view is the same and the sky is the same but everything is also different.

Because of the the warm weather, the clear barrier that had enclosed the balcony from the wind has gone. The bedsheets are also different. The walls have been repainted. There is no Donghyuck. There is no Minhyung either. There is only Mark and the ineffable itch inside his chest.

He drinks his expensive wine alone and he admires his expensive view alone and when he sleeps on that large memory foam mattress with the windows opened and the stars alight, he pictures Donghyuck. They’d made love multiple times that autumn weekend—against the window panes, inside the glass confines, in the tub, by the walls.

He recalls it now with his length gripped in his hands, with Donghyuck’s naked body outlined on his limbs, his tender cries inscribed in his mind, eroding all his good senses and reasons. He envisions Donghyuck and his beautiful body arousing every cell in his own, his long legs stretched, opened, wrapped around his waist, the long-tanned fingers digging into his muscles, the shifts of their flesh upon one another, how it’d all ended in a burst of blinding white behind their eyes.

He comes, calling for Donghyuck’s name. It dies on his lips as the words break into a sorrowful wail. He curls into himself, his body and hand sticky with shame and grief. He goes to sleep, imagining Donghyuck’s warmth in the emptiness next to him.

* * *

It begins a few months after his trip from New York. It goes like this: he is having dinner with Jeno at an old neighborhood business. It’s not the type of restaurant they are used to, in fact, one can hardly call it a restaurant with how it is established. There is no roof and the kitchen is a small food cart. Red plastic tables are spread across the dirty streets with large metal tin cans as chairs. Still, the food is better than the gourmet meals they eat on a daily.

With his graduation, Jeno has started working for the company under the finance department. He’s complaining to him about one of his superiors when he mentions the superior’s similarity to their hateful granduncle. Jeno goes on a rant, evoking childhood memories from the times their granduncle would visit on the major holidays. The pork on the grill sizzles with oil and fat. The soju bottles reflect green. He has no recollection on any of the stories Jeno has been enthusiastically telling for the past ten minutes.

This wouldn’t have been concerning if he hadn’t remembered he’d mentioned the same granduncle to his mother a few weeks prior when his children had visited. There was a granduncle. He was a vile man. But that is all he remembers. He becomes restless. He hides his discomfort from Jeno who is unaware of the turmoil inside his stomach.

It happens again a few days later. It is a good night. For once, he comes home before the sun has set. He eats dinner with Eunji and Minwoo. Then, he listens to Minwoo’s improved piano playing. Later in the night, Eunji leaves for drinks with her friends. Sometime later, he sits on the carpeted floor with Minwoo by his side. He strums his guitar mindlessly. 

  
Minwoo asks where’d he learned to play and who had given him the guitar. It is a simple question with a simple answer and if Minwoo had asked last year or even a few months prior, he would’ve responded the moment the words went up in the air. Yet, tonight, he has no answer. Because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know where’d he learned the guitar. He doesn’t know who had given him the guitar.

That is the second incident.

Since, it is as if his previous amnesiac state had returned with a vengeance. It happens again and again. Things he should’ve been able to recall have disappeared into the black void inside his head, though his most recent memories remain.

It’s the stress, he tells himself. It’s the lack of sleep. He’s just tired. Once he finishes the next project and the workload decreases, everything will return to normal. So he leaves the missed memories in the back of his mind. The next few weeks drift with his excuses.

On the morning of his 28th birthday, he wakes up to a cold room. The air conditioner is cranked to the max. The coolness reminds him of the white room in his dreams. The light is doused from the thick curtains of his study. He cracks his lids to gaze into the ceiling. He thinks of the white room. Then, he thinks of Donghyuck. Lee Donghyuck. He’s been visiting him less and less in his dreams. Donghyuck. Lee Donghyuck.

Donghyuck.

What did he look like?

* * *

Dr. Lee Taeyong’s office resembles an Ikea ad. He wouldn’t be surprised if he’d extracted the entire design from the Swedish furniture brand. He thinks of the last time he’d been here, where Taeyong had wished him good health. He’d joked about chasing him out if he’d ever visited again after all the intravenous he’d pulled from his visits.

Though, now, his face has taken a grave expression as he reads the greyscale document in his hand. He cannot make heads or tails of the MRI result presented to him. Taeyong places the transparent images down and he sees the way he tries to rein in the nervousness in his gaze but it’s too late. He’s always had sharp eyes.

“How have you been feeling? Any nausea, vomiting, and tremors?”

“No, none of that. It’s just as I’ve told you. Is the memory loss a late manifestation of the accident?”

Taeyong shakes his head. “This isn’t related to the accident. Your initial amnesia had been a result of trauma and contusion which have healed according to your last MRI from a few years ago. This,” he says, pointing his pen to the white spot among the grey areas, “is different.”

The way he says it does not sit right with him. He feels as if there is a joke and he’s been told the punchline but he can’t generate an appropriate reaction. He nods and gestures for Taeyong to continue the explanation of his assessment.

“Your frontal cortex has been compromised. The reason you’ve been having difficulty recalling old memories is because of the pressure enacted on it. The brain is still very much a mystery in the medical field but it seems from the rare previous cases I’ve encountered, only long term memories are affected. It mimics reverse Alzheimer’s where old memories are damaged but new memories remain intact,” he says.

Taeyong pulls out a blue script pad, writing into it with thick black ink. The handwriting is neat and orderly contradicting the stigma affiliated with a doctor’s handwriting. He focuses on the precise and immaculate writing, taking a breath with every letter to release it with the next.

When Taeyong is done, he rips the small paper from the perforated edges. He slides it across the desk and he is glad he has done so because his hands are folded onto his knees where they cling to each other with a forceful grip. He does not have the strength to release them. He reads the script. It is a list of medication names with dosages next to it. He makes zero sense of it.

“I wouldn’t advocate for surgery given how small the lesion is.” Taeyong says. “The risks outweigh the benefits, anyway. Not to mention, with the kind of surgery we’re talking about, there is always the chance of permanent brain damage and in the worst-case scenario, death. I recommend treating the symptoms instead. The disease and associated symptoms can be managed and slowed with medication. However, I want to be transparent with you. Ultimately, there is no stopping the progression.”

“What are you saying, Dr. Lee?”

Taeyong purses his lips to stare at him who stares back. Outside, a nurse’s medication cart catches the electrical lines of a mobile vital machine in which it is tipped over into the nice cream-colored floor, and when it falls, the sound ricochets down the hall to reach Taeyong’s office. Taeyong flinches at the sound and he repeats his question. Then Taeyong says,

“You have a brain tumor, Minhyung-ssi.”


	23. Chapter 23

It’s not cancerous. But it can’t be operated on either. It’s just a little inconvenient. Like an itch you cannot scratch or a cough that will not go away. For now, it will only affect his memories pre-accident. In Dr. Lee’s words, if one were to have a brain tumor, this would be the best kind of tumor to have.

The best kind—how he’d said it as if it were an appliance advertised in the final sales section of the department store. The words were meant to dilute the severity of the situation but for Minhyung, it’d only broadened his distress for it is not the fear of the illness or the fear of the pain or even the fear of dying that terrifies him. Dying is the easy part. It’s everything in between that haunts him. The ramification of the irrepressible progression of this disease—what it will mean to him, what it will do to him, what it will do to Donghyuck. For Lee Minhyung, the night never ends. 

He goes home with a laundry list of medications and the reports neatly folded in a manila folder. The chauffeur is waiting for him when he exits the hospital. He fixates his attention on the occupied streets of southeastern Seoul as they thread through the late morning traffic. His eyes engage the clean roads and the high buildings and the blinking street lights that ghost his peripheral vision. In his distraction, he plays with the medication and they roll in his palm, between his fingers, where the ridges of the white caps scratch his skin. 

He returns to his office just as noon starts. For the rest of the day, his body and mind flitters through papers and meetings and phone calls. The sun dies. The moon is resurrected. A beep generates in the darkened floor indicating the last of the employees. Only then, he allows himself to breathe.

He takes the report out, his eyes boring into the tiny white disproportionate shape. It is barely a few millimeters wide, resembling a stray mark on a painting caused by a careless brush stroke. He runs a hand through his hair. It trembles as he does so he clutches the strands tightly in his fingers and when he pulls away, the detached pieces fall into his lap to blend into the black fabric. 

He rifles through the bag he’d hidden in the bottom of his drawers. His hand rocks like a boat in a storm as he shakes several pills into his palm. They travel roughly in his throat as he swallows them dry. All the strength in his flesh has abandoned him and he allows his torso to fall. His forehead meets the cold polished wood of his desk. The sound of it strikes hard in the quiet buzz. 

He shuts his eyes. Then, he scours his head. He combs through every memory as he forages for Donghyuck’s face. A glimpse, he prays. Just a glimpse is all that he asks. But where there should be a face, white space replaces it. It is as if someone had scratched Lee Donghyuck’s existence from his life. 

Lee Minhyung is in ruins. Desperation fills where fear cannot reach. He calls for God, _give me a face, give me a hand, give me a gaze, anything, anything, anything, please._ He bites into his lips to cage his wails once the realization comes to him seconds later inside the shadows of his dark muted room. The undeniable truth of how he has lost Donghyuck's eye. Those round brilliant eyes that had gazed upon his, how they’d accompanied him through countless days and nights, years and seasons. That gaze which had held an entire world inside of them, how he’d so easily fell into dark pupils, curved lashes, how he’d carved homes in them. He’s forgotten. God has plundered his mind like a thief of the night. 

He hammers his head into his desk. Think. _Think!_ Stars explode behind his lids, their deaths vivid inside his mind dragging him away from Donghyuck. His throat releases a jagged sound. It crawls along the walls in wild animalistic strides. His arms rise to sweep whatever his hand catches and they clatter into the hard floor in a flurry of papers and pens and clips. The dissonance battles the clutter inside his head until he is dizzy with agony—until he is anguished and despaired and destroyed. 

He staggers and stumbles to the windows where his raised fist meets the glass, driving repeatedly into the unyielding surface. It vibrates on his skin and he forces his eyes close with terrific strength so that marks have begun to etch themselves on his forehead.

In his torment, he becomes hyperaware of the sorrow that has always resided inside him, in that place that is more than mind, body, and soul. It spreads. How it pierces his flesh, his bones with the vindictiveness of a wronged lover until he has forgotten how the sun feels like on his skin. 

He crumbles. His arms come to shield the side of his head as if he is anticipating an attack. Then he grieves. What have you done to me, he calls to God. What have you taken from me? Give it back. _Give it back._

Give him back to me. 

* * *

Minhyung is resting on a bench that overlooks the bevels of Songnisan. The slopes dip and rise into the crooked lines of the mountain ranges continuing into the far distance until it blends into the clouds below him. He is in Beopjusa, a Buddhist temple he’d frequented with his father. 

Beopjusa sits high and grand, it’s dignified building peaks removed from the world. In Songnisan, there is a sky above the sky. The halls where he’d passed by earlier in the day are inscribed with ancient scriptures depicting the law and orders of Dharma. From where he is sitting, away from the populated areas of the temple, he sees the tops of pavilions and pagoda. 

There is a pine tree in front of him. The branches extend towards the sky creating a dichotomy of blue, green, and brown. A monk dressed in the usual grey robes of the monastery approaches from the distance and upon reaching where he is sitting, he bows to which he returns the gesture. He leaves in the direction of the main hall and he is again left with his own existence. 

His eyes have found a routine from the unpaved roads to the pine tree to the rocky sharp ranges to the high sky back to the unpaved roads. He is trying to find an answer to a question he does not dare to ask. Even as the sun dips along the horizon canvasing the vigorous orange and yellow above him, he stays. 

There is no wind, no bird, no sound, therefore, when the path next to him crunches disturbingly into the peace, he finds the same monk who had greeted him earlier in the day. They exchange the same greeting before the monk takes the seat next to him. Then, their eyes traverse the roads to the trees to the ranges to the sky and back to the road in a choreographed motion. 

He brings his hands up to his face, his fingers parting to catch the last rays of light. They fall limp in his lap and he says to the monk, “There is a person who makes me desperate. I don’t want to let him go.” 

The monk’s quick eyes search the clouds.

“People who live in nostalgia are like scavengers. Not all feelings will have a beginning or an end but you must expel them.” He turns to him. “For desire is the root of suffering.”

He contemplates the words.

“Sunim, what is the meaning of life?”

In the far distance the bell rings several times into the air. A family of crows flies into the distant space, their calls loud across the nearing evening. The monk says, “Have you ever noticed, how the sky remains the same but it is the clouds that come and go?”

He stands up and his knees stretches uncomfortably from the lack of movement. He bids farewell to the monk but he does not laugh even if his throat tickles with amusement. He refuses to look back as he ventures down the long path and the long way home. He understands it now. 

He’d gone to the harbor to search for a plane. 

* * *

Minhyung hurls his phone. It crashes into the wall and the smooth cream-colored surface gives space to the small gaping hole in the middle. He’d thrown it hard enough, he sees parts of the infrastructure through the opening. The cracked screen on his phone blinks black indicating the call has ended.

Taeyong refuses to operate. Despite his continuous, incessant stubbornness he refuses, deadpanning it as a suicide mission to which he had argued, if anyone is dying, it would be him, which shouldn’t scare Taeyong. It is not as if one death will blemish his entire career. Still, his adamant rejection had persisted which left him no choice but to search for other solutions. New York, Baltimore, Singapore, Toronto, Tokyo—he searches and searches and searches as if he is Jason searching for the Golden Fleece. 

Outside, a heavy storm has overtaken Seoul’s November sky leaving the night drenched in translucent droplets. They reflect the cityscape, racing against each other, a smooth decline treading glass. Occasionally they would combine with one another overhauling the other droplets near them. It is blurry enough he cannot see past the curtain of rain.

His mind is with Donghyuck as it always is just as his heart has always been. Because of this—because his mind, soul, and heart are separated from his body, it is difficult for him to find his root in reality. He counts the droplets and when he has lost count, from his wallet, he pulls out an old polaroid where the colors on the edges have begun to fade. Eunji had given it to him quietly a few weeks prior. She’d found it at the bottom of her storage when she’d been clearing out some of her childhood items.

He’d remember then when he let his eyes gazed upon the aged photo of their high school graduation, the way his heart stuttered in his ribcage at the eyes that stood brilliant even on paper. How they’d shone splendidly among the muted colors from the existence that which haunts him with every breath he takes. The relief, the reprieve, the wonder how it had all mixed into a cocktail of cyclonic emotions as he clutched the picture in his shaking hand. It was as if he’d lay his eyes on Donghyuck for the first time. 

Now, with the polaroid again in his hand, he traces Donghyuck’s figure. He is in his arms, his legs away from the ground from where he has lifted him into the air. With Minhyung’s diploma grasped in his raised hands, his hair peeps from under his cap which Donghyuck had worn as his own.

That smile—how fearless it is. That smile—how blinding it is. The radiance bridging the gap between his reality and a time he cannot return to. The rain is incessant in his ears. He hopes it is not raining where Donghyuck is. If there is rain, if there are storms, let me weather them alone, he prays, to God and to Buddha. Let that person’s day be filled with the sun, let him shed only touching tears, let him see only beautiful sceneries. 

Let him find happiness. 

* * *

Supported by a stack of books, the cracked phone screen stands erected in front of Minhyung. His weary self stares back at him through the screen. He runs a hand over his face. The hair on his jaw prickles his skin. He hasn’t shaved in days. He blinks. The screen blinks back.

The red recording button glares ominously even with the light of the early morning constructing shadows behind him as the sun spills orange into his study. He clears his throat, starts the recording, stops it immediately after. He is shaking. Not a sign of his symptoms but something deeper in his guts. He doesn’t know what to say. The phone turns black. He restarts.

He presses record. 

* * *

On a good Wednesday afternoon in winter, Minhyung arrives at the tattoo parlor with the January wind trailing his back. It is by complete coincidence that his appointment lands on a Wednesday but when he thinks about it, it is meaningful in the sentimental sort of way. Donghyuck’s favorite day happens to be Wednesday. There’s no reason for it, he’d said. You don’t need a reason for everything you like or everything you do. If feelings can be explained, then how authentic can they be? He keeps these words inside his head as he enters.

The store is hidden in the curves of Itaewon, identified only by the taxidermy deer head on the storefront. Inside, a long black couch made of velvet occupies the right wall facing the reception area. Adjacent to it, are stations divided by semi-opaque screens with the respective artist’s name written on the chairs.

There are only three other people in the store. A young woman with a youthful face sits to the left with her shirt rising just below her breast as the other woman, who adorns an impressive set of piercings, works on her flat abdomen, the beginnings of blazing red spider lilies blooming across her pale skin in a series of precise quick strokes.

He meets Ten. Ten has the sort of otherworldly face you would not see on the common streets, and if you were to see it, it would stay with you for a long time. Ten leads him to the other corner of the room where he is asked to strip. Once the blueprint of the design they have agreed on over e-mail has been pasted onto the side of his torso in blue ink, Ten leads him to the full-length mirror for assessment.

His eyes roam the expanse of his white skin, venturing through the sphere-like figure drawn in thin lines which circles several times over. From there, multiple fine lines are born from that sphere with the delicateness of strands of hair, some faded, some darker, some shorter, some longer.

He lays on the bed and Ten begins. The strokes are gentle. He envisions a cat lightly scratching the surface of his skin repeatedly. Near his ribs, over his abs, above bones, across skin—it feels like a ritual, something ceremonial and sacramental. The snow surges when night falls. Ten finishes just as the storm begins, wrapping his torso in saran wrapping. After paying, he braves the evening.

The night never ends, but he isn’t afraid, for the sun lives in him. 

* * *

“His name is...Lee Donghyuck. He was born on the sixth of June. He is three years younger than you. His favorite color is red. His favorite season is summer. His favorite flowers...are sunflowers. He plays the piano. He is shyer than he portrays so he only plays for you. Even though—even though he detests the cold, he has a bad habit of kicking the sheets off when he sleeps. His hands—his hands are always cold. He likes it when you hold them in yours. He likes sleeping in your arms. He is scare of the rain. He would pray for winter and storms to never come. Tight clothes offend him. He likes wearing yours. He gets nervous easily. Sweets calm him. He likes dogs but when he was young, Horangi scared him a lot. Sometimes...sometimes he gets nightmares. Most days, it is hard to wake him from a good dream. Crowds—they irritate him but he hates being alone. He doesn’t like it when you interrupt him. When you talk to him, you must listen first. He calls the lights by the Hangang, ‘mini suns.’ He likes high places. From these high places, he likes to watch the sun set in pink. He likes to watch them rise in orange. He likes the feeling of being drunk but he isn’t fond of drinking. He doesn’t want a wedding. He says he’s too shy. He often takes afternoon naps under the sun. He likes being under the sun. He—he smiles when he is happy. When he is sad too. On the last day of summer, he became yours. You lost him in autumn. He is funny. He is understanding. He is kind. He is gentle. He is bold. He is brave. He is beautiful. He cared for you. He loved you. He saved you. And you—you must never forget that, Lee Minhyung.”

[PRESS TO REPLAY]


	24. Chapter 24

There are days and then there are the bad days. The days are the ones that accompany Minhyung through most of the winter then tepid spring falling into thermal summer into mild autumn into frigid winter into clement spring again. Life sails in the form of ordinary routines. There are the dull conversations, the rehearsed expressions, under the golden sun, under muggy rain, they pass by him like wind ripping into his hair.

Most days, he feels like a figurine anchored to the turning wheels of a music box, spinning in the same drill to the same tune so that time becomes irrelevant and memories fall short. Sometimes the box malfunctions, the melody stutters, his cycles lapsing like river water running over bulging rocks instead of smooth channels. Sometimes there are bad days. But most days are just that—days.

Gradually, just as Taeyong had predicted, his memories begin to desert him, draining through his fingers like deflected light. It’s difficult to catch them. They don’t vanish in chronological order, instead, resembling paint splattering on whatever it hits. They don’t fade as wholes either. They come and go but never as a complete picture. He trades a piece for a piece. It’s a bit like a puzzle with the frame constructed but everything inside of it is missing. Lee Minhyung is a man who is trying to hold sand in a storm. 

On Taeyong’s recommendation, he’s taken on journaling. The small black book sits in the pockets of his jackets. He keeps it near his heart. It’s hard to justify why he does. The closest similarity to his bizarre action would be a student who sleeps with their textbook under their head in hopes of the words osmosing into their mind overnight. It’s silly. It’s childish. But it brings comfort.

Writing is almost purgative. Minhyung bleeds pieces of Donghyuck onto the papers. The pages are filled with his name amongst fragmented sentences splintering into jagged phrases. June falling into Donghyuck’s eyes. Glories of sunflower yellow. Crests of ocean blue. The incandescent flares of fireworks. Donghyuck’s soft profile. The mirroring light. Donghyuck—angled to the white moon. Cold roof nights. Balmy white afternoons. Donghyuck—beneath the pads of his finger. Helix knotted limbs. Guts coiling. Heartstrings binding.

Donghyuck.

With his thoughts crippled and his memories mutilated, he hemorrhages onto the virginal papers in heavy hard lines indenting the pages. Those long childhood days and short adolescent years accumulating like dandelion fuzz in wisps of ivory in his vision. How the wind blows them away, how they whistle into space, falling into tattered sentences—the most fundamental part of his mind manifested into letters and words. 

Sometimes the words don’t make sense. Sometimes they feel foreign as if they have been written by different hands. Sometimes they evoke fervor. Sometimes they evoke affection. Sometimes affection is anger. It’s hard to tell where one begins. There are no ends. It all mixes into a sour concoction of self-hatred, bitterness, desire, resentment, remorse, longing, passion—he can go on and on. It will not stop these paradoxical feelings from festering in the open wounds of his heart and mind. 

Lee Minhyung is 30.

There are bad days. Then, there are days. 

* * *

At the end of September, just as the trees have begun to metamorphosize into palettes of primary colors, his mother collapses with the first fall of the leaves. The panoramic landscape outside the hospital windows imitates an impressionist painting—all minute skinny strokes under cool light with an emphasis on the ephemeral. There is a Japanese saying: _mono no aware_ —the beauty of the transient. Nothing lasts. Trees die, leaves fall, flowers wilt, seasons change, feelings wither, memories fade, breaths stop. Nothing escapes death.

That inevitable act called dying—what does it mean to die? Dying—the most intimate of performances to witness. When he thinks about it, the death of one person never stops at just one. Rather, two or more—the death of the person the spectators have forged inside their mind accompanying the death of the person the dying thinks they are. Both are as true to one another but the ones who have been left behind will only mourn for one.

What does it mean to live? People reject the permanence of death to repose in the comfort of memories. But the thing is, when you die, you don’t live on in memories. You don’t live on in conversations. When you die, you die. The truest version of yourself dies with you. What people remember, what people commemorate is what they want to see. Dying really is an awful thing. And remembrance brings no contentment. 

“Do you know what the most wonderful thing about death is, Minhyung-ah?”

He peels another orange, separates the divorced pieces into bite-size bits, rests them along with the other fruits he has cut up for her. Even though he knows she’s too weak to stomach solid food, he continues to peel. It keeps his hands busy. Peeling and cutting and separating is easy. There’s not much to consider. Humoring her, he asks what the most wonderful thing about death is and she says with water in her lungs and masses in her flesh, “You don’t have to pay the debts you owe. Only those who are rich in breaths are subjected to the law. The dead? Forget about it.” 

The foliage outside waltz with her peculiar words. These days, nothing she ever says makes much sense. Her sentences steering into odd advice and outlandish opinions. It’s frightening how fast an illness can take you. Minhyung puts the orange down. He holds her hand. Gone are the jewels, gone are the diamonds. Not even the polish is spared. Against his pale skin is a pair of bruised delicate hands. She looks up somewhere into the ceiling, eyes hazy, mind distant, and she says, “I wish I could have seen him one more time.”

Her breath runs ragged. She lets go. And everything is quiet. 

* * *

September is the month of deaths and funerals. Minhyung tells Jaemin to keep quiet. He knows he will tell Donghyuck if given the chance. But it is best this way. Jaemin respects his wishes.

A few weeks after his mother passes, Mr. Ko dies in a freak accident. He’d been skiing in the alps. Foul play is suspected but there’s not enough evidence to conclude much of anything. His death comes abruptly. There’s no time to mourn. Not that there is anything to mourn.

Sometime later, they hold a funeral. Eunji doesn’t stay long enough to watch it end. She’d barely stayed long enough to see it begin. How strange to see that they have become each other’s closest family. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears the jealous tones of a boy.

It runs too fast for him to catch. 

* * *

Minhyung is driving to work weaving through busy roads already crowded with the morning rush. There is a song playing on the radio. He hums along with it. The notes are familiar eliciting wisps of sceneries he’s seen, places he’s gone, the shadow of an existence that has always been by his side, swirling into the lyrics edging on the tip of his tongue. He pulls over on a rounded curb, shifting the car into parking. Then he runs into the first public building he sees, pushing past moving people and stationary objects.

He hides inside a dingy bathroom stall. It smells like piss and regret. Under white fluorescent glare, he fishes a cigarette from his pocket. It takes him several attempts to light it up. When he finally steadies his hand, the orange embers awaken, birthing grey smoke into the air. He inhales his creation. Then, he extracts his phone from his jacket. Propping it on the small ledge of the toilet-paper cover, he plays the only video saved on it. 

“His name is…Lee Donghyuck…” 

He exhales. 

* * *

Lee Minhyung is no stranger to the 90th floor. The sweeping sight of Yeouido is more familiar than home. The impressive bridges, the mountainous buildings, the ocean of black and white suits filing along the concrete streets—his legacy, his kingdom.

Sitting on the seat once occupied by his grandfather, then his father, then his mother, his eyes roam his new surroundings. From this new position, he sees it now, how the ledge elevates his body so that he will always be looking down below at whoever is facing him.

Italian leather couches, antique Persian rugs, diamond chandelier—traces of his mother here and there. It is difficult for him to cast them away. He keeps them. Interior design has never been his forte. The duties of a chief executive officer are different from a director. There’s more delegating and signing and entertaining. Opportunities to leave his throne come far and in between.

More than a throne, it feels as if he is sitting on an electric chair waiting upon his punishment. It’s hard to say why but moments when he feels that way, he involuntarily recalls the town he’d visited a few years ago where’d the Sun God had graced its presence with brilliant light and the waters ran gentle and blue and the cliffs were amicable and green.

He seeks comfort in the littlest things. 

* * *

December comes rough. He goes a week without his medication. A few days before the anniversary dinner, the pill gets recalled by the pharmaceutical company due to a defection in their latest batch. The new batch will not be arriving until after the anniversary event which means he goes through a week of bad days.

The words in his journal read the most foreign they’ve ever been. The sentences in his recording all sound like lies. Even looking at Donghyuck who lives in the polaroid slipped between the spaces of his wallet feels as if he is staring a stranger in the face. How cruelly contradicting it is when he knows Donghyuck is important to him but he is losing all the reasons why leaving him with only the answer. He makes sense of nothing and everything. 

And somehow amid all this, he unwillingly finds peace in his turmoil. In the eye of the storm, there is a truth he does not want to admit. The unspoken desire to forget. Let him lose it all—the pain, the agony, the regrets, the longing, the missing—Lee Donghyuck’s haunting existence, let the wind carry it all away.

How liberating it had felt when he’d met Donghyuck’s eyes in the polaroid and a quiet acceptance had quelled the twinging valves of his heart. How quickly the guilt consumed him, crescendoing into his system when he’d formed the thought. Lee Minhyung has become a pendulum swinging from one extreme to the other control by the gravitational pull of his diverging feelings. 

Nursing a cup of whiskey, he contemplates these feelings on the balcony of the Shilla with the muffled sound of chamber music escorting his thoughts. It is a cold night. His breaths come white. There is a cigarette suspended in his fingers. The lighter is in his car so it remains unlit. He holds it anyway. Just holding it hushes the noise in his head. The snow has stopped but the sleeves of his forearm are wet from where he is leaning.

He closes his eyes. He tries to recall Donghyuck’s voice. He can’t. He _can’t._ It runs like a medley of all the voices he knows and somewhere inside that fusion, there is Lee Donghyuck, but it is like separating sand from salt. Those despicable and pathetic feelings surging through him are hard to describe. Even more, he does not know if it is a good thing or a bad thing or simply that—a thing that happens. He feels sick. He needs to leave. 

He rushes by the crowd of executives and directors and foreign ambassadors in a blur of black and white. He holds his breath. Breathing will reveal his intentions. His body makes it to the entrance of the hall until his frantic gaze catches the round eyes of a young boy in the distance standing under the fine chandeliers illuminating his small figure as if the world is his stage. He stops. The air does too. The noise, the dust, the universe—how it all suspends in that space call time. 

Minwoo barrels into his knees, hands catching his pants, and it is only by pure muscle memory that he manages to haul him up into his arms. The boy commands his attention. His hair like a dark halo, his skin an alabaster white, his face all bundled into sharp features with an expression far too imposing for a child his age. He knows this face. He knows the expressions he wears. There is something inherently instinctual with the way he wants to hide him away. He _knows._ Lee Minhyung _knows._ He falters. The thought perishes. What does he know? 

“Who is this, Minwoo?”

The boy averts his eyes to his feet. He shuffles his feet. His beaten sneakers squeak against the marble floor. Minhyung looks with him. There is a hole on the side of one of the shoes. Minhyung wants to buy him a thousand sneakers. Minhyung wants to hear his voice. Minhyung wants to hear how he’d grown up. Where’d he grew up? What grade is he in? What is his favorite color? What are his dreams? Minhyung wants—he wants—wants—wants—what does he want? Why does he want? 

“This is Minhyuck Hyung, Appa! He’s really nice! He bought Minwoo a brownie! And he’s from Jeju-do! And—”

Minhyuck. The name curls under his tongue. The boy runs. His legs break into a sprint as he flies down the cleared halls, into the elevators, disappearing from Minhyung’s life. Minhyung lets him go. He lets him go because there is nothing he can do and there is nothing he can say to hold him back. They are nothing to each other. The bond he feels—it can only be his imagination. It doesn’t exist. Just like his peace. Just like his stolen thoughts and his fragmented memories.

None of it exists. 

* * *

The realization comes to him four months too late. By then, Lee Minhyuck has gone. When he realizes, he is in the middle of the streets, walking home from the parking lot, his hand tossing the keys into the air until his heart lurches and his intestines tangle and suddenly, with the gruesome strength of an automobile collision, he jerks into the ground, crashes into his bruised knees, and in his bloodied hands, there exist his abducted thoughts.

It was Minhyuck. It was Minhyuck who he’d been staring at. Lee Minhyuck had stood in front of him, within reach, and he’d let him go because he couldn’t put a name to a face or a face to a name or an existence to an identity. Had Donghyuck been there too? Had he been one of the faces in the crowd? Had Minhyung passed him by as if they were strangers? He retches into the row of morning glories along the nicely trimmed lawn. His bones shudder in his flesh. His body is too small to contain the anger circling his vessels.

He’s had enough. Lee Minhyung has had _enough._

* * *

Lee Minhyung is on his knees. In Taeyong’s office, with his shadows cast onto the white walls, with his sorrow and grief and weariness bare on his unshaved grey face, his voice withering behind his throat, he begs, “Please schedule the surgery. I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t lose him like this either. Those memories mean nothing to you but for me—for me—I—I can’t go on without them. I don’t want to wake up one day and not know who he is. I listen to the recording every morning. I read the journal entries every night. I keep his picture with me everywhere I go. And every— _every fucking day_ I try to make sense of them with what I have left and every day it gets harder and harder and one day I won’t be able to. Do you—do you know how helpless I’ve become, Hyung? I’ve already forgotten his voice. What more do I have to lose? What more do I have to—do I have to give up? Please, _Hyung_ —please, I am already dying. I don’t—I don’t want to disappear—I don’t want to disappear and live and breathe in a body that has no recollection of _him_. I can’t go on like this. I just—I just want—I just want—“

_I just want to keep on wanting Lee Donghyuck. How can I want him if I don’t know him?_ The words brim his tongue. He crashes and his body betrays him as it splinters into itself, bringing a desperation that hollows the sacs of his lungs. He coils into his flesh—a cocoon of misery packaged with grief delivered by a wet face serving proof of his defeat by an enemy he cannot see, then finally, _finally,_ Taeyong kneels with him and he curls his hands around Minhyung’s arms and he says, “The first day of June. I’ll send you the details. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, Lee Minhyung. It will be your funeral.”

It will be your funeral. Lee Minhyung has never heard of more cathartic words. 

Finally. 

_Finally._

* * *

Minhyung tells Jeno first. Then Eunji. He tells Jaemin last. Jeno and Eunji react the way he’d expected them to—all hysterical tears and pleading no’s. By this point, he is too jaded to reason with them. There have been too many deaths in the last few years. He’s sorry for putting them through the possibility of another. But he’s not sorry enough to give up on Lee Donghyuck. When he tells Jaemin, there is an almost quiet resignation in his face amid the melancholic sadness. 

“Please tell me where he is Jaemin-ah.”

Jaemin runs his hand over his face. He sighs, the air leaving his chapped lips hot and heavy with the burden of the world inside the mist. He says, “What will you do with that information, Hyung?”

“One month—one month is all that I ask for. After—after I will let him go.”

Minhyung isn’t really sure what he is asking for. One month of what? Of borrowed time? Of rented memories? Of transient happiness? Then what? Jaemin wears a bitter expression. It is awkward on the face that always wears a smile. He doesn’t buy it. Neither does Minhyung.

It is almost summer. Seoul is engulfed in good spring weather. He smiles at Jaemin. From the glass reflection behind his back, he sees that it is a broken smile, teetering between regrets and relief. It will not take much to break him. One rejection can cripple Minhyung. Still, he smiles, because it is the only thing he can do and he says, “I don’t want to die like this. I don’t want to die without—without seeing him once.”

“Hyung—“

“Hyung is selfish. Hyung is a bad person. But Jaemin-ah, I don’t want his last memory of me to be—to be—inside that damn hotel room,” he sweeps a hand over his hair oiled in grease and grime. “I don’t want to die like this,” he repeats with a finality that silences the distance between them. 

Jaemin’s stare is crushing. There is not one emotion that Minhyung can pinpoint. Or maybe there is too much for him to count. His defeated eyes reflect from Jaemin’s. With a finality paralleling his own, Jaemin says, “Sunshine Town. Jeju-do. I hope you find what you are looking for, Hyung.”

It takes him a long moment for the name to register. Something bubbles inside his throat ripping from him in a series of loud laughter. He laughs and laughs until his lungs break and his stomach cries and his eyes become blurry with tears and something more. 

All this time. All this _goddamn_ time. 


	25. Chapter 25

Minhyung leaves on the first of May. He brings with him a suitcase of shirts, pants, and quiet anticipation. On the ferry, cruising along the fringes of the peninsula, he nurses a kind of volatile nervousness in his guts. Ultramarine saturates his sight instead of the blinding white of the sky. It takes one hour by flight from Seoul to Jeju-do but almost five by boat from Mokpo. One is too short even if five is too long. 

Standing by the bow with the restless wind cutting into his eyes, he begins to fear. The surging wake shadowing the vessel in foams of white escorts his apprehension. While the rest of the world is running from the smoldering fire, he is heading towards the source.

Under his breath, he repeats the recording and allows the words to careen the roof of his mouth. That sweet taste, those familiar lyrics, they dock him to reality so that he would not carelessly float to the deep ends where there is no return. Though, seeing the contours of Jeju-do appear just beyond the near distance in rigid crooked lines, he wonders if he’d been rowing this entire time. The cigarette from his lip erects a dome of vapor white lasting for half a second before it is swept into the blue. 

It hurts to think of Donghyuck but it hurts more to know that there exists a world where he will not think of Donghyuck. It’s strange, he thinks, how heartache feels more real than happiness. How loneliness feels more real than companionship. How dreams are more palpable than reality.

With the ashes wuthering in the air, he ponders the dichotomy of the world. Love and hatred, desire and resentment, intimacy and distance—there’s no sense to any of it. No reason, no sound. But it exists everywhere. It exists right here, right now, with his feelings falling and rising, then rising and falling. Rinse and repeat as if his emotions are a series of sines and cosines on a graph. Where there is excitement, there is doubt. Where there is hesitancy, there is grit. Feelings—there really is no rationale for them. 

The platinum ring on his finger reflects white under the sun. Its lover sits with its owner in his wallet. He takes a long drag that lasts with the continuous calls of the seagulls. The cigarette burns to the tip. He tosses it into the sea along with the complexities pertaining to human life. The dense waves inhale them into the ocean depths.

Then, he makes his way to his seat where he pulls up the address from the note function of his phone. His eyes glide over it to settle on the name below. Lee Haechan. Haechan. He draws the hanja on his pants. The character of ‘tree,’ the strokes of ‘all,’ the curves of ‘fire,’ the lines of ‘mountain.’

Haechan. 

To resurrect with brilliance. 

* * *

Minhyung arrives at Sunshine Town in the late afternoon. The May sun guides him through the sparse forestry. Everything has been doused in a thin layer of sultry heat, seducing the greens of the trees and the roots in the roads to bloom leaves and flowers in preparation for a sanctuary where summer can thrive and prosper.

Much of the island is the same as it had been three years ago as if time is a mere construct within the boundaries of the town. Living in a city like Seoul where changes happened by the milliseconds, the image of this quiet harmonious town free from strife and the merciless passage of time provides comfort. It is a good thing Donghyuck has chosen Sunshine Town to nurture his rebirth. It is what he deserves and it is what the world owes him. 

He drives through the wide expanse of the braided streets where colorful low roof homes occupied the perimeters and the laughter of children mingled with the muggy air. It is Sunday. It is a wonderful day to die. Lee Minhyung might die from nerves alone.

He meets Mrs. Young, the mayor, at the town hall. She is a talkative woman with a forward enthusiasm that seems too large to be contained in her small body. He is welcomed with a bouquet of canolas and a pamphlet too amateur to be done by professionals. 

After informing him of the welcome party they’ve planned for him, she offers to show him around the town to which Minhyung rejects vehemently, spouting off convoluted excuses. Her stupefied expression hints that it isn’t the answer she’d been expecting but after giving him directions to the restaurant where the party will be held, she lets him go. 

His car is parked in the small lot next to the humble building and he leaves the pamphlet and bouquet there. Then, he begins to walk. He wanders with the violent taunts inside his chest cavity. And as his feet take him to long roads and short houses under blue skies and temperate wind, his eyes devour the sights around him with the greediness and desperateness of a parched man in the desert who has been offered a pitcher of water.

These are the streets Donghyuck takes. These are the scenes Donghyuck sees. These are the stores Donghyuck frequents. This is the bus he rides. This is the air he breathes. He passes by children. Their lively shrieks filling the yards. How many of them are friends of Minhyuck? He passes by people. They ride bikes. They loiter under pine trees. They eat tangerines. How many of them have accompanied Donghyuck in the last ten years? 

If he were to pick any one of them, would they know Donghyuck better than he does? Definitely. There’s no doubt about it. No writings, no recordings, and no pictures will make up for the ten years he’d used as collateral. Lee Donghyuck, who he is losing. Lee Haechan who he has already lost. He feels naïve. He stares into the nomadic blue. He watches the restless waves. His heart sings with the wild wind. He is here. Yet, he is not. That immeasurable space between him and the world. That infinite distance between him and Lee Haechan. 

He stays until there is no sun in the sky. 

* * *

Minhyung is two and a half soju bottles in when he realizes Donghyuck will not be attending the party. Neither will Minhyuck. Under his tongue, mixed with the bitter acidic taste of regret and headache, relief fights with disappointment. 

An old folk song is playing on the rusty CD player set up on the counter. In the alcoholic haze, he recognizes the feminine voice trailing through the dust-filled speakers as an old artist his mother was particularly fond of. She sings of separated lovers and stolen dreams and missed opportunities and it’s all too much for Minhyung’s beaten and battered soul. Some kind of welcome party. 

He abandons the small shot glasses to drink straight from the mouth and in between his seventh cigarette and third bottle, he comes to the realization that no liquid and no poison will be able to drown the heavy woes of his mangled heart. They have been doused in great hopelessness, lit by unrestrained loneliness, and it burns and burns in the bottomless caverns between his ribs. 

He discusses the economy with the men and accepts the compliments from the women and he speaks to them in Lee Mark’s voice, entertaining them with Lee Mark’s memories, and he drinks and despairs and he drinks some more until Lee Minhyung dies in the dimness of his feathering thoughts. He calls for Donghyuck’s name but there is no answer. 

There never is. 

* * *

A brisk breeze only apparent in the early mornings of a good spring day sails through the opened windows guided by the rich glow of daylight. They settle on Minhyung’s aching body like a canopy. Minhyung keeps his eyes close even though he’s been awake for a good five minutes.

He is in Donghyuck’s house, lying on Donghyuck’s bed, wrapped in Donghyuck’s sheets, with his face buried in Donghyuck’s pillow, with his nose and mouth and hands and legs consuming Donghyuck’s existence. 

It is absurd how he has forgotten Donghyuck’s face and Donghyuck’s voice but his scent remains like ghosts in the dark. This is the smell of Donghyuck when he is happy, this is the smell of Donghyuck when he is sad, this is the smell of Donghyuck in the throes of passion, this is the smell of Donghyuck in the midst of pleasure, this is the smell of Donghyuck in his arms. 

Man die for religion. But Lee Minhyung can die for just one moment. He can die in the place where Donghyuck is the most vulnerable, surrounded by the things he holds dear, on the bed he sleeps in every night, inside the sheets that have the privilege to touch his naked skin. And he begs to God, _if this is only a dream, then spare me the cruelty of coming to my consciousness, if this is only a dream, please kill me, right here and right now, and I will die a million times over for a million moments in the precious comfort that I have finally come home._

He wakes. Absolute red and orange glares give way to a white ceiling, four yellowing walls, the clumsy drawing by a child, and just below, a photograph that has already begun to fill the crevices of his hollow heart. He has been spelled by Donghyuck’s matted hair, bewitched by his crimson skin, enchanted by the brilliant white clothing his skin, and in Donghyuck’s arms, in Minhyung’s vision, engraved in his mind, there exist the first breaths of Lee Minhyuck.

Let him forget his name, let him forget his origins, let him lose his empire, let him lose his life, but this, this delicate thing made up of uncountable exchanges traversing an everlasting past, this delicate thing should be kept safe from the cruel clutches of fate. Even if everything has slipped from him, even if there is not a single worth to his flesh, please, God, _please let me keep at least this and I will be content._

He doesn’t allow himself to move until he is sure the room and everything it stands for will not run from his sight. His breaths, which have taken on a quiet but fast tempo, battles for dominance with the pulsing drums inside his head, and his skin, itchy and dry, and his eyes, crusted with dust and cells, but so full of Lee Donghyuck, his heart, full of Lee Donghyuck, his mind, full of Lee Donghyuck, his existence, full of Lee Donghyuck. He wants to breathe and die with Donghyuck’s name on his lips. 

He stumbles to his feet. The light sheets tangle with his legs. When he walks, his shoes scratch against the old woods of the house. He stands in front of the door in the middle of yellow light and cool wind. A cloud of euphoria and hesitation hangs over him.

He hasn’t made up his narrative yet and he is sure he has forgotten the way to form sentences but the undeniable truth that is his heart calling for the presence of its other half is oppressive enough he opens the door without a second thought, not knowing what he will see but knowing what he wants to see. 

He sees Minhyuck. Standing in front of the kitchen, in a periwinkle t-shirt, in black shorts, with black hair and black eyes, wearing Donghyuck’s expressions with Minhyung’s features, and the realization that this is his son, made up of his flesh and blood, hurls into him with the strength and brutality of being rammed by a truck. Maybe two trucks, one on both sides, so that it ensures his death. 

It is like staring at a mirror except it is a magical mirror that transports the viewer to lost times. When they last met at the hotel, Minhyuck had kept his head down with his eyes trained to his shoes, and Minhyung had been too caught up with his thoughts to take him in but now with the world awakened and the universe afire, he sees his son.

He is all Minhyung but he is also not. Even with his sharp angles and keen eyes and fair skin as if he’d been carbon copied from Minhyung’s blueprint, there is also a softness to him that which no fierceness can hide. It shines from his astonishment falling into a tentative smile, his eyes curving with his gentleness, and it is so blinding and so viciously radiant, Minhyung is willing to repent for another ten years, twenty years, an eternity just to protect it. This is his son. This is Donghyuck’s son.

This is Lee Minhyuck, their son.


	26. Chapter 26

“Ahjussi,” Minhyuck says. 

In his cloud of apprehension, Minhyung hears the specks of awe ribboned between the letters. His voice which evidently holds no difference from other children’s, takes Minhyung’s breath away not because there is anything special in his tone or his gaze or his inflection but because it is a voice that belongs to Lee Minhyuck.

Up until this point, Minhyung still had his doubts about his current reality, his nerves fraying on the edges of a steep cliff, but with one word from Minhyuck, it is as if he’d spoken Minhyung’s being into the corporeal world. Ahjussi, that one title, summoning a profound awareness that which speaks of their relationship or lack thereof. 

And upon that revelation in which he’d been too afraid to confront, a recognition that has always lingered in the back of his mind, he comes to accept that grief of the mind is limitless, and damage to the heart is infinite. In Minhyuck’s eyes, he is only a strange Ahjussi who happens to be the father of a friend. In Minhyuck’s eyes, he is nothing. But in Minhyung’s, he is everything—a love lost to the yesteryears, a testimony to a past he has missed, and a glimpse into a future he cannot have. 

Lee Minhyuck who is the everything to Minhyung’s everything. 

He speaks his name, “Minhyuck.” 

Clear astonishment colors his eyes and no sooner does it fade into a quiet glee, validation washes over Minhyung like a torrential downpour as if to make a mockery of his crimes. 

“You remember my name.”

How can I not, Minhyung thinks, and so Minhyung says, “How can I not?” A statement, an inquiry, and Minhyuck returns the words with a thoughtful look of which his dark pupils fill with such grandness there is little white to his gaze. Those eyes sharing a decade worth of sceneries with Donghyuck. Strange envy fills him—his desire to be Minhyuck flourishing into his desire to be Donghyuck, ending with a hunger to be anyone and anything but himself, merging and dividing and merging again.

He must’ve been staring for a while now unaware of Minhyuck’s growing tension towards his hard stare because long after he’d said anything, the floor groans with the weight of a body and when Minhyung follows every whine which seems to be echoes from his heart, finally allowing his eyes to settle on the curves of his face, the lines of his body, he understands then, that the parts of him and Donghyuck who had illusions of eternal happiness speaking of a permanence transcending time and space, he understands then, that their deaths have long passed just like the fireworks they had witnessed on the last day of summer leaving ghosts swimming in their shadows. And unlike the fireworks which came back every year with every summer, the parts that are solely Lee Minhyung and solely Lee Donghyuck share none of its perpetuity. 

He is Donghyuck and he is not. He is Minhyung and he is not. Where there was once a time you couldn’t tell where one soul began and where one soul ended there is now such a strong and clear distinction by which no affection and no longing can fill but where there are differences, there is also individuality. Whether that is a manifestation of his disease or a consequence of the lost times or a convenient development of both or if it is a good thing or a bad thing is of no importance. 

The man in front of him avoids his gaze as Donghyuck and he meets his eyes as Haechan and Minhyung who had thought he would not be able to bear the face of an impostor wearing Donghyuck’s scent concludes that in fact, he can. Standing there with dust in his lungs and light on his skin, reprieve to his dépaysement settles quietly with the sun in his eyes. 

As much as he is not Donghyuck, he is, and as much as he is, he is not. Haechan falling into Donghyuck into Haechan into Donghyuck and with the speed of animals in the wild, it becomes clear to him then, whether he is Donghyuck or Haechan had no bearing on his devotion to the soul standing in front of him.

Man or woman, young or old, past or present, Donghyuck or Haechan, Minhyung or Mark—what they are, what they stand for, what it means to gaze into each other’s eyes to know and to accept that everything has changed but nothing has changed, those feelings swelling, and surging, and breaking, those feelings, how no identity, no discrepancy, no distinction can change them. 

Unlike the fireworks dying and resurrecting, different from their youth buried in unspeakable pasts, distant from the volatility of people and the fickleness of seasons, they are like stars of the night and stars of the morning, eternal and immortal and untouchable to the passage of time. Stars, that is what they are. 

“Hi, you must be Haechan-ssi. I want to apologize about last night.”

Donghyuck stares and he stares back, and he remembers then, under the golden haze where good wind swept into the kitchen space carrying spring and a memory adrift in the craters of his mind, how Donghyuck has always carried a je ne sais quoi to him, a light and brilliance that which even death cannot touch, how it litters across his expressions, his motions, how even the most superficial movement of his eyelashes asserted his grace, and when he replies, this unidentifiable _something_ fills the spaces between his words, cushioning the sentences, and even if Donghyuck had been reading passages from a dictionary, Minhyung would’ve still listened with rapture. 

Then, he says Minhyung’s name, and it is said with such certainty, Minhyung wants to give the name to him, just as he would like to give him his breaths and all that can be given, he wants to give it all back to Donghyuck. It’s fine, Minhyung-ssi, he’d said and Minhyung doesn’t have the heart to tell him how nothing will be fine if he continues to call for him. He can feel his self-control waning, his recklessness waxing, like crescents dilating into full moons. He tells Donghyuck to call him Mark. He teases Donghyuck. He pushes to see how far he can get. He doesn’t get far. 

But even that is okay. 

* * *

Later, when Minhyung is dressed, his appearance decent and humane compared to the wreckage he’d presented himself as in the morning, he hears the bells ring with pleasant accents from downstairs, like church tolls resounding into the day.

Even long after the door has shut close, they continued to tinkle a mysterious melody conducted by the wind through the opened windows and to Minhyung who is still trying to find his nerves to go downstairs, it seems almost divinatory, serving as a prognostic to possible future events. 

With this thought, he takes his time to explore the apartment Donghyuck calls home. It is astounding how such a limited space can hold so much. The things these walls have observed, the words they have heard, how every wood, brick, and metal has been erected to shield and shelter Donghyuck whose presence and meaning cannot be contained and yet it is. 

He says his greetings to Haechan and Haechan greets him back in the labels on the back of shampoos and body washes, on the spread of National Geographic magazines littered across the living room table, and all fifteen mismatched plates and bowls in the kitchen. There are photographs too, more photographs than plates and bowls and magazines and body wash and shampoos. He lives 10 years in a morning. And when he can no longer denied the longing in his heart of hearts, he goes downstairs. 

* * *

“Do as you wish, Mark-ssi. You’re Sunshine Town’s very important guest. You don’t need to ask for my permission to sit down.”

Donghyuck turns to the sink and Minhyung watches as he washes cups that are whiter than some of the shirts in his suitcase upstairs. His deft fingers which had caress the monochromatic keys of Steinways through those hot afternoons, where each day had seemed like a long spell of summer, fiery and passionate just like the notes birthed from his slender hand, are now furiously scrubbing glass and porcelain, running under broiling water shading his skin red and angry. 

It is a damn shame but even in his shame Minhyung discovers envy, that same envy that had overtaken him in the early morning where’d he wanted to be Minhyuck, to be Donghyuck, ultimately transferring into inert objects. He is envious of the cups that have stolen Donghyuck’s attention, jealous of the way the pads of his fingers held their bodies, resentful of their white skin embracing the palms of his hands.

Not only of the cups, he is jealous of the shirt he wears, and the pants that cling to his legs, and his shoes that cover his feet, and even the cool air all around them inhaled by Donghyuck as it circulates his system to swarm the tissues of his lungs, the chambers of his heart, the lobes of his brain until it is exhaled through his lips and repeat. 

Sitting by the desk he’d sat at three years ago, he traces Minhyuck’s doodle, and he begins to work through the juvenile resentment and when their eyes meet through the curtain of white hues that have fallen between their physical bodies obstructing a clear vision, but their minds as fine and as transparent as crystal glass, how could Donghyuck not have known he’d wanted him to breathe Minhyung in, not to fill the spaces where air can’t, but to be part of that which is greater than him. He doesn’t need to be Lee Donghyuck’s everything. 

He just wants to be Donghyuck’s

* * *

Donghyuck’s new attitude is almost enigmatic, slipping from the tendrils of Minhyung’s mind where tentative understanding falls into confusion before once again weaving into reason and sense with an almost laughingly hypocritical speed. It’s not the why that has him curious but the how.

Until he met Haechan, he hadn’t known Donghyuck can be capable of saying such words in such tone with such expressions and perhaps, calling it new, does not give it justice, because what Minhyung is quickly understanding is that Haechan has always been in Donghyuck. 

If they had never met or if they had met under different circumstances or if they aren’t the people they are, would Haechan have appeared before Donghyuck, before Minhyung, before all that has happened or will happen? Minhyung marvels at the duality.

He feels as if he is rereading a book he’d read so many times before only to find he’d been saying the sentences but he hadn’t been reading them. He hadn’t known a sentence can be read in such a way or with such voice and delicacy. He hadn’t known how one word can mean another or how the importance of the coherence never fell with the order of the chapters but rather how they connected in a rawness only human experiences and emotions can evoke. 

Standing by the balcony, a fire alighted in his blood and his hand, he asks if Donghyuck hates him. If he hates him for marking his name between the lines, or for folding the pages into intricate origamis if touched by other hands, will lead to the ripped ends of the papers, and when Donghyuck replies that he doesn’t hate him, he does not know if the feeling in his stomach should be called restfulness or restlessness.

In the billowy white, Donghyuck asks if good and bad are mutually exclusive of one another, and Minhyung who has always lived in clouds of grey, feet never ever reaching the antipodal that is total black and total white, answers, “Isn’t that it?” 

If there exists total light in this world, if there exists absolute grace and virtue in the murky dimness of these insidious waters, then it must exist in Lee Donghyuck. 

Later, when he is on the phone, Eunji asks him, “What do you plan to do?” 

He stubs the cigarette, presses it into the metal bars that support his body. The orange dies in his eyes. Then, there is only him, the white hums of a black night, and the lingering presence of Donghyuck by his side. 


	27. Chapter 27

Two shades before the sky gives way to soft baby blue, Minhyung pulls from the last remnants of a dream that had furnished him with a certain equanimity though he has difficultly recalling the contents of it upon waking.

Though the thing with dreams is that there are no meanings to them, simply flashes of synapses leading to sequences of images and emotions which undoubtedly should not affect one’s reality as much as it does given their abstractness, yet, they still do.

People put meaning to the things they don’t understand. He’s been debating this for a long time now, but Minhyung reckons the world would be a more honest place if the conscience is prioritized over comprehension. 

His thoughts keep him at bay. He’s aroused, has been for an entire night and a half, and out of respect for Minhyuck and Donghyuck who are only one feeble wall away, he wills his shameful desires elsewhere with the last shreds of his mental sobriety.

If the circumstances were different, he would’ve come a thousand times over, regardless of pride or dignity, until there are only the bright flashes of fluorescent galaxies behind his sticky lids, but if the circumstances were different, this sordid dilemma deluging his mind would not exist in the first place.

Lee Minhyung is a pervert. He can’t help it. It’s this damn bed and these damn sheets. It creaks under his weight with the slightest movement and even though the euphemistic sounds emitting from the aged springs are no different from an old door or a shelf that has not been oiled in a long while, he can only imagine Donghyuck’s naked body writhing about like exalted sea crests beckoning him into fathomless depths.

It takes him a while to part from the pillows which have creased to the point where the contours of his face have been etched into the cover from how adamant his body had been in its attempt to drown his breaths into Donghyuck’s scent. He feels as if he’s been transported into his adolescent years where everything that moved and breathed had seemed like a blinking billboard asking to be fucked.

How many others have shared this bed? How many others have buried their scent into these sheets carrying pieces of Donghyuck’s presence and had thought they were leaving behind their own when in fact, the sheer magnitude of his gravity is so strong and certain, everything that is left behind can only be devoured? There are black holes and it exists in Donghyuck’s bed. Half hard with these meaningless conclusions coiling and churning, he recalls Celan—how you die out in me.

How you die out in me, Lee Donghyuck.

* * *

Minhyung steps from the bathroom. A film of condensation follows him. Minhyuck is sitting on the couch. His legs are pressed to his body and where his head lays adjacent to his knees, micro-dust flutters above his hair like a halo. He’s faced towards the balcony. The door has been opened but the hatch screen remains closed.

The faux silence is only disturbed by the leaking faucet and as he stares into Minhyuck’s profile, exuding a solitude unbecoming of a child his age, Minhyung is overwhelmed with the strongest desire to beg for Minhyuck’s forgiveness. He imagines himself falling to his knees. The confessions are on the tip of his tongue. It will only take one word, then one more word, then another word.

He doesn’t though. Not because he doesn’t know how but because there exists a real possibility where Minhyuck will not forgive him. Here, in the morning, in the shadow, in warm Jeju-do, this fear crushes his guilt. He settles for a good morning instead. Minhyuck jerks from his thoughts. He whips his head to look at Minhyung, then his bedroom door, then back to Minhyung.

“Good morning,” he repeats and a moment later, he adds, “Minhyuck.”

It takes Minhyuck a moment to respond. By the time he does, with a quiet, “Good morning, Ahjussi,” the words come out stilted. Kind of awkward. Minhyung cannot read his mind. He does not know why Minhyuck finds it hard to return his morning greeting but even that is of little importance. What matters is that he returns it at all. Lee Minhyung is both a humble and greedy man. He motions to the book bag slumped by one of the kitchen chairs.

“Are you heading to school?”

Minhyuck shakes his head. His bangs brush his forehead. Minhyung catches a small white scar near his eye. There is a story behind it. Just as there is a story behind every expression and every word. And even if there is a highly improbable future of him hearing the stories, it would not be the same.

He wouldn’t have lived it the way Minhyuck and Donghyuck had. He is like a guest listening to the dinner party stories of the hosts. Instead of sharing knowing glances and fighting to finish sentences, he will always be left begging for one more story, one more sentence, one more joke.

“Not yet. It’s too early.”

“Have you had breakfast?”

“I’m waiting for Appa,” he says. He chances another look at the closed door. “He’s a bit tired today though. So, I think I will just buy something on the way to school.”

His words drip with irrevocable tenderness. What Minhyung would give to be on the receiving end of them. What Minhyung would give to be in Lee Minhyuck’s life. To be by Lee Donghyuck’s side. He would exchange the rest of his life for one moment in the last ten. Again, he is both a humble and greedy man.

“Let your Appa sleep. What do you want to eat? Ahjussi will cook it for you.”

Minhyuck smiles but it is a weird smile as if he is ashamed of it so he bites onto his lips but it is already too late. The corners have been lifted.

“Ahjussi, do you know how to make scrambled eggs?”

* * *

Huang Renjun makes him nervous. His stomach flips restlessly under his gaze which runs sharp and invasive as if he’s been thrown into a field of stinging nettles. He is Donghyuck’s accountant. Minhyung had not known accountants can exude such an oppressive aura until he took Renjun’s hand in his. What does he know? What does he not know? Will he tell Donghyuck? Did Donghyuck tell him?

Through several meters, shining glass, and some few steps away, he stares at Donghyuck. Even though the windows of the car are tinted, he can still trace the outline of his silhouette. He wonders if Donghyuck can tell he has taken his entire focus just as he always has, just as he always does, just as he always did. Even in beautiful Jeju-do where beauty existed in the simplest breaths, nothing compares to Donghyuck and his simmering anger, his fickle nervousness, his pushing, and shoving, and mean words.

He finds relief in the harshest sentences. Let Donghyuck be angry, let Donghyuck hate Minhyung, because at the very least, they will still be thinking of each other and even if the feelings are not the same, at the very least, they will continue to exist in each other’s mind and for Minhyung, even it isn’t enough, it has to be enough.

Later, when Donghyuck returns and the car has longed disappeared off the paved road and he shows no signs of knowing what Minhyung knows, he feels almost disappointed, as if he were an employee who does not dare to quit, but rather hoped to be fired to avoid confrontation and the making of excuses.

If only Donghyuck will look at him, then he will know just how much Minhyung knows, and if only Donghyuck will not hold him at a distance yet simultaneously keeping him near then Minhyung will not be compelled to push as much as he does. If only, if only, if only.

If only Donghyuck knew.

* * *

Donghyuck is a good cook. Every meal is a good meal. Though, it’s not because of the fact that he is a good cook. But because he is Donghyuck. He can serve Minhyung charcoal or overdone eggs and Minhyung will still scarf it down with the enthusiasm of a starved man who never had the luxury of a good meal. Even if it is a plate of air, Minhyung will not hesitate for a second serving.

These are the side dishes prepared by Donghyuck’s hand and this is the soup served in Donghyuck’s bowls and here is the omelet seasoned by Donghyuck’s fingers which he’d picked up and placed on Minhyung’s plate with the same chopsticks he’d seen him put in his mouth earlier. Donghyuck’s saliva on the omelet. The omelet in his mouth. Donghyuck’s saliva in his mouth. His saliva with Donghyuck’s saliva.

“Thank you, Haechan-ssi. It’s delicious.”

They’ve done this before. Minhyung knows. A long time ago. He doesn’t know exactly when or where or what had been the context to the memory but there is absolute certainty it exists. Donghyuck in Minhyung in Donghyuck in Minhyung in Donghyuck. If Donghyuck will not breathe him in then Minhyung will do it.

He’ll breathe every aspect of Donghyuck—every cold exchange, every hesitant movement, every calculated sentence, every dead skin cell on the sheets, every molecule of spit on his chopsticks, everything that is Donghyuck, everything that is Haechan, Minhyung will breathe it all in so that even if he loses every piece of himself and his flesh rots six feet underground in his maggot-ridden coffin, Donghyuck will always remain buried in his skeleton.

And for a long while, he’d thought Donghyuck had finally seen through him the way he wanted him to until just as quickly, the moment breaks as if a rock had been thrown and now the air ripples like a disturbed pond.

It’s the ring. This, Minhyung knows as well. Don’t look away, he wants to say. It is yours. The ring, my heart, my affection, my existence, my name—there is nothing that is not yours. There is nothing I would deny you of and there is nothing I can deny you of if only you would look and see. If only you knew.

But the words never leave him and Donghyuck looks away.

* * *

There is a small crowd of parents gathered around the entrance of the school. Minhyung stands with them, his red umbrella standing out in the sea of black like a lone hibiscus among wilted plants. Minhyuck is the last one out following a boy with an orange hat.

Sudden strange and strong conviction fills him, and then he is vowing, to never forget Lee Minhyuck, 9 years old, silhouette under a low brick building, with the sky dim and deadly, and the rain swift and violent, how happiness can be found in something as simple as one moment in a split second. He will never forget. He cannot forget. He will not allow himself to.

“Ahjussi.”

“Minhyuck.”

The blue umbrella he’d brought for Minhyuck is forgotten in one hand while the other remains steady on the handle of the other. Minhyuck does not ask for his own and Minhyung has no desire to offer him one. Side by side, through the heavy humid air and tremendous downpour, Minhyuck’s shoulder brushes his torso.

Minhyung’s body is wet now. The rain seeps through cotton and denim into naked cold skin. Half of his body grows darker than the other. The creek accompanying their path is near flooded and the turbulent flow drowns out any attempts at conversation. Minhyung wonders if Minhyuck will remember this.

Years from now when he is as tall as Minhyung, old enough to hold an umbrella for another person, will he remember there was once a strange Ahjussi who’d stayed over one strange spring, picked him up on a pouring afternoon and under a large red umbrella vivid and concrete in a world that had been falling apart they’d walked a flooded path with water bleeding into their shoes? Will he remember?

Will Minhyung?

* * *

For all the years they’ve spent together, the only times Minhyung is faced with Donghyuck’s back is during bed. Whether in the ardent junctures of passion or the quiet silent calms of a spent night, if there is ever a time Donghyuck turns his back on Minhyung, naked skin always accompanied these moments.

Where he’d walked, Donghyuck always followed closely behind. He tries to recall the times where Donghyuck had led him but he knows even without the illness, the times came sparsely. It’s not a bad sight—Donghyuck leading him that is. His hair growing into his nape, lithe limbs hidden behind those baggy clothes, and his slender legs which seem to be choreographing routines into something as simple as walking. Donghyuck’s back is as pretty as his front.

He shuffles out of his sweater. With a burst of unfounded courage, he drapes it across Donghyuck’s back. Because Donghyuck is shivering. Because Donghyuck likes wearing his clothes. Because he wants to contribute something to his graceful silhouette as one would do when making offerings to the gods.

Because he wants to hold Lee Donghyuck but he can not.

“Minhyuck is important but you should take care of your body too, Haechan-ssi.”

His ears burn. He walks quickly. Donghyuck follows him. He doesn’t have to turn around to know.

* * *

Minhyung cups his hand. The cigarette splutters, sparks to life. Somewhere near and far, something knocks over the lid of a garbage can, and the sound of metal clanging onto asphalt rings dissonant in the night perpetuated by nicotine clouds. It might have been a cat. His head rests on his palm from where it is propped on the banister.

He looks at Donghyuck. Looks at his tantalizing shorts riding higher than is appropriate and his worn-out t-shirt where the collar has been stretched from multiple washes and the only thing stopping him from taking Donghyuck against the glass door under a black sky is knowing he does not deserve it. A privilege. Everything that has happened is his privilege. He drinks the smoke.

“Haechan-ssi, do you think love and hate are mutually exclusive of one another?”

“Isn’t that it?”

Minhyung’s heart clenches not unlike acid crawling up his esophagus or rubber bands wrapped around a fruit until the pressure supersedes the sturdiness of the object and it explodes in a horrid colorful disaster.

In his heart of hearts, he begs: don’t say that even in jest or banter or to ridicule me because if love and hate are mutually exclusive, how do you expect I should control myself if your words are no longer lined with distaste and your expressions have fallen into such warm gentleness and you have begun to show me your most vulnerable sides once again, how do you expect me to willingly go when you look at me the way you do? Don’t say that. Don’t say the things I want you to say, Lee Donghyuck. Don’t let me hear the things I want to hear.

But even these confessions are lost in the ember ashes.


	28. Chapter 28

There is something wholly inexplicable about the way Minhyung’s mind responds to Jeju-do, to Sunshine Town, to these May weathers and yellow canolas and spring spelled skies. Just as he brushes on the slightest senses of reality, they no sooner extricate from him like an unbound book whose pages flurried in fervor during powerful storms so that he loses sight of the last sentences he has read. 

It’s the sort of drunken sensibility he has become accustomed to, indulging in the plane that is less than courage but more than aversion where his words are always pulling but his actions are always pushing so that the precarious balance he has falsified in his mind remains as such.

It must have been the air. That fresh salty blueness carrying nostalgia and memories from long ago sifting new and old images through the ridges of his nose, the spaces in his mouth, and the flesh behind his throat. Minhyuck’s calls dawdle through the golden field until they dissipate distances away. 

He looks at Donghyuck, truly looks at Donghyuck and his disposition that which dominates all that can be consumed in all that lives. The canolas bending and wavering to the agreeable rhythm of a quiet wind, the sweet tangy punch in between his teeth tingling his gums and the roof of his mouth, such grand blue with the grace of the white contrails drawn into the good atmosphere—how it all empties into the gravity secreted in the slow breaths of Donghyuck. 

He wants to push Donghyuck into the bench, wedge his body into Donghyuck’s territories, with his lips on Donghyuck’s neck he’ll lick the beads of sweat away from hot skin, and with his utterly ruined voice, Donghyuck will call for his name, and the only witness to their clandestine love affair will be the May sky. Temptations. Desires. James 1:14. 

Fucking hormones. 

Fucking heat. Donghyuck’s heat. Fucking Donghyuck into the heat, into the bench, into the ground. Fucking hell. He runs a shaking hand through his hair of which the strands are wet enough it becomes matted on his humid forehead then the hand falls behind him and when he speaks, he speaks with all the intents and purposes of someone who is trying to stay grounded and to remind himself it is almost sacrilegious to think of Donghyuck—a father whose child is only mere meters away—in such carnal ways. 

“You raised him well.” 

“Thank you.”

Donghyuck’s gratitude though heartfelt in nature and earnest in voice can only sound mocking in his ears. Are you thankful to have met me or are you thankful to have left me, he wonders like a masochist who finds no pleasure in either choice but cannot find the will to stop peeling at the scabs of his heart until the scars become larger than the spaces they occupied. 

“Do you miss his father?”

From his peripheral, Donghyuck copies his forms. When he throws his face upward, features kissing the air above, his hair runs wild as if to control the cadence of Minhyung’s heart.

Through humid breaths he speaks inside his head the words he will not allow himself to say: do you still yearn the way I did, the way I have, the way I do, Lee Donghyuck? In the last ten years, how many nights have I plagued your mind, how many days have I accompanied your thoughts? If I told you these longings in my heart and if I dared to hold you close to me, will you push me away or will you return these ambitious desires the way I fear you will? Will the words you speak and the things you do come from you who I have already lost or will it be from the poison I have fed you all those days and nights ago? What will you do, Lee Donghyuck? What will I do? What shall we do when the consequences of our everything comes crashing down on us in these cascades of changeless regret? 

What have we done to each other, Lee Donghyuck?

* * *

That thing called time treads the lines of death. Days and hours give way to moments. Yesterdays and tomorrows flee like unwanted lingering snow on the ashen grounds and when all that is evaporated and gone, there will only be todays. Every day is a today. Every today is a moment. They are having a moment, right now, by the beach with hot grainy sand in between their toes and the water chasing land like a determined lover, relentless in its pursuit of an impossible love. 

Courage prevails in these tame oceanic waves more than it does within Minhyung and it is a good thing Lee Minhyung is such a coward because if he were a braver man, nothing, not even the possibility of rejection or resigned hatred or pure undisguised disgust, would’ve stopped him from lifting Donghyuck off white ground, his feet damped with granules of sand, kiss him with zeal, sunlight and beach air between the atoms of their wet tongue, until he cannot contain it in himself anymore to confess as Keats would say, _I cannot exist without you—I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again—my life seems to stop here—I see no further._

But because he is not, everything stops him. 

Today, Donghyuck is wearing shorts again, a modest version of his sleepwear, reaching above his knees but rising steadily to reveal smooth skin when he chases Minhyuck across the shore. Minhyung’s pants have been rolled up to his calves. He stays back, watches as Minhyuck presents a coral conch to Donghyuck and in this vision, there seems to be a delicate contentment that has risen all around them. He wonders what Donghyuck hears when he brings the pink carbonate to his ears, all those secrets and desperate calls from the depths unleashing in their echoes, when he alone, bound by morals and principles, cannot say his own. 

He crosses the remaining distance between them, traversing earth and water, hoists Minhyuck into the sky of which his hands grip onto Minhyung’s shoulders and his elated shrieks glide and burst like bubbles over the sea impregnated with brine and the sun, eternal and altruistic, indifferent to where its good grace shines and Donghyuck, only mere breaths away yet perpetually beyond his reach.

Over Minhyuck’s shoulders, Minhyung looks at Donghyuck who looks at Minhyung who cannot shake off the strange sad sorrow of an early summer which has become stale but just as palpable and powerful. Minhyuck reaches an arm out and he shouts for Donghyuck. Donghyuck takes the hand. 

Together, they wade the tides.

* * *

Sunshine Town’s market street is a little strip that spans a long road circling a tiny meadow of which there are more elm trees than there are stores. Most of the time, the stores are left unattended with the owners frolicking somewhere near or somewhere far, dozing underneath good weather, lunching from balconies draped with days old laundry, and it is a kind of faith that is only seen in a small town where everyone treated one another with a rare and hopeful kindness.

The store they frequent is run by a grandma in her late 60s with early-onset Alzheimer’s who often cannot remember why she’d stored the carrots in the freezer or the milk in wooden crates outside where the heat is the hottest. Still, she manages with the help of her fellow villagers. Today too, she greets Minhyung and Donghyuck with a sure smile as she says, “On another date, Haechannie?” 

The first few times had been embarrassing enough for the both of them, even if the cause of the embarrassment stemmed from an elderly with dementia, and it had never occurred to Minhyung how much they looked like a couple from a family who lived quietly in the countryside where weekends were crammed with afternoons by the beach and domestic moments followed their nights and three decades of regret had no place in the world they had forged for themselves.

His secretive daydreams are shot down almost immediately, as it usually is, when Donghyuck replies, “Halmeoni, I’ve told you many times, this is Mark-ssi, the representative from Seoul.”

Halmeoni shucks a pistachio, throws it in her mouth, and as if she is dealing with a child who is trying to convince an adult of the impossible, she nods empathetically. “Is that what we’re calling our husbands these days?” 

Halmeoni’s loose tongue does not phase Donghyuck who says, “You’re being disrespectful towards Mark-ssi.” He picks up a bag of garlic, inspects it, adds, “And his wife.” 

The second part sounds like an afterthought in Minhyung’s ears. Somehow, Donghyuck’s nonchalant tone fills him with the sort of dangerous high one would only experience when they have done something they were explicitly told not to do but the more they are told, the more they are encouraged, never mind there is nothing going on between him and Eunji, never mind the ring he bears belongs to Donghyuck as much as it belongs to him, never mind he is living in moments he’d thought he can only dream of. Halmeoni shoots him a knowing look and for a split second, Minhyung questions the authenticity of her dementia. 

She says, “Do married people not date?” 

Her words and her expression are laughingly bold, the kind of crude sentiments that can only be excused if they came from someone who is ill and Donghyuck must have been used to her teasing for he only says, “Halmeoni, don’t forget to take your medicine today. We don’t want you wandering off in the middle of the night again.” 

They pay and then they leave. On the way home, Donghyuck apologizes. Minhyung does too, though, for an entirely different reason, hidden by carefree and meaningless conversations. 

* * *

One night, by the balcony, a little drunk on cheap bitter beer and cut up watermelon cubes drenched in leftover soju with lungs full of poison and the night clear in their eyes, they discuss Macbeth. 

“What if Macbeth never met the witches? Would he have become king?”

Minhyung considers the question. It is difficult what with Donghyuck’s flushed face demanding every bit of his attention. He’s still sober. Minhyung knows. It takes a lot more to get Donghyuck drunk. What he doesn’t know is how he knows. He coughs in a pathetic attempt to refocus. 

“Macbeth would have still become king,” he says. Stabbing a cube, he continues, “It was his destiny. It was never a matter of if but how he would've attained kingship.” He chews and as he does, he keeps his eyes on Donghyuck’s lips which have become glossy and wet and unbelievably red from their midnight snack.

Donghyuck, thankfully, is wholeheartedly involved with their discussion of the rhetoric of Shakespeare. He pays little attention to Minhyung’s growing dilemma. Instead, he asks, “What is destiny? If destiny exists, does that negate free will? Are we all victims of our desires? To fate?”

It is too much of a good night to be discussing something so heavy. Rather, Minhyung wants to take Donghyuck into his arms and to whisper into his ears, yes, we are all martyrs of our circumstances, yes, it was fate that brought you to me, and it can only be fate that things have become the way they are, and it can only be the workings of this world that your destiny and my fate have been intertwined and tangled like sutures of our lives, but Minhyung knows, if he were to say it, there would only be lies.

Fate and destiny have nothing to do with anything. Everyone is responsible for their own actions. Even given strange and hard circumstances, an individual’s choice will always remain as one’s property and nothing, not even the all-powerful almighty can change that. To claim anything as fate—how lost must one be? How desperate must one get? 

Minhyung knows just how desperate. Therefore, instead of looking into Donghyuck’s eyes and giving him the answer he deserves, he looks at his hands, limp in the space of his crossed legs. 

“Do you still play?”

The sudden change of topic is nothing of the unusual. Most of their conversations ran a similar course, jumping from one convoluted topic to another. Perhaps, it is only Donghyuck who can match this bizarre way of conversing. 

“Play what?”

“The piano.”

In his black eyes under an even darker sky, Minhyung sees the hope startlingly bright amid the frightening tension that has overtaken his rigid body and he scrambles to say, “Your hands. You have a pianist’s hand,” and just as quickly, Donghyuck schools his expression to something less vulnerable. He looks at his hands, held up in front of him before they fall into his lap once again. 

“I haven’t played in a long time.”

“Why not?”

“No one is there to listen.”

Somehow the words don’t sound the way they mean. More than solemn and somber, it travels the space between them like a simple fact. Water is wet, fire is hot, and Donghyuck doesn’t play because no one is there to listen. He asks, “What do you mean?”

Donghyuck looks at him, holds his gaze, and this time Minhyung has no excuse to look away. Nothing, not even armageddon could have broken the moment. If he reaches a hand out to Donghyuck, stroke his lovely cheeks, and disclose all the secrets nearest to his heart with a courage given only in a confessional, what would Donghyuck do?

Donghyuck blinks. Once. Then twice. Then he says, “I hated the piano. I hated how pretentious it sounded. I hated all the pieces I was forced to learn and to play. There is nothing more hollow than an ostentatious pianist.”

The overdue confession punches his guts. It feels as if his rib cage had caved into itself. Minhyung feels foolish. What had been the reality Donghyuck lived? He doesn't want to hear it. Even if he knows, voicing it aloud will not make a difference. Yet still, he clings onto the words as if they were wooden planks to his soul that has been lost at sea, and when Donghyuck confesses again, he hears, “But there was someone who liked my playing. And there was nothing I would not have done for that person. For him, I could live and die if it was in his name. But he’s no longer here. So, there is no point in me playing if no one will be there to listen. Mark-ssi, do you think, this too, is fate?”

His kindness. His desolation. Minhyung will never forget. 

Lee Donghyuck who has always been his destiny. Lee Minhyung who cannot be his. 

* * *

The paparazzi are almost barbarous in their unyielding ruthlessness, camped out on various corners, hidden parked cars, blending in with unassuming crowds that have become just as dangerous. On most occasions, Minhyung is fair enough to let them get in their quota, but with everything that has happened so far and everything that will come in the near future, he is on edge.

From his first steps off the plane to the ride to Minwoo’s recital, and even long after in one of the many rides of Lotte World with Minwoo in his lap, they would not cease with the pictures, bright lights continuously flashing behind his red lids. He hates Seoul. He really does.

It is as if mere days in Sunshine Town have convinced him he’d had a taste of paradise and now that he has confirmed heaven does exist on earth, there is nothing stopping him from wallowing in the hell that is Seoul. His agitation, though clear as a cloud on a sunny day, is placid by Minwoo’s uncontained happiness through which is evident by breaking smiles and pink gums. For one day, out of all the thousands he has missed, he becomes the father Minwoo deserves. 

It happens after he tucks Minwoo into bed. It happens two steps after he closes the door, meters away from the kitchen, when a current of electricity runs through his nerves, frying his bones as if he’d been struck by lightning. Flares of light explode in his vision and for a long time, he can only see the rings of white as the world shakes before him until he realizes it is not the world that has shattered but him who has lost control of his body. He convulses on the cold tiles. 

Everything goes black after. 


	29. Chapter 29

Early last morning on the way to Seoul, Minhyung with his eyes closed, arms loose, heart oscillating the extents of listlessness and lethargy, his mind, with a power he hadn’t known had resided in him, conjures lurid images of a glorious late July where languorous winds had hidden them from the rousing excitement of summers in the metropolis. He sees light, pouring beneath blue sky, and he sees Donghyuck, beautiful, lovely, Donghyuck.

Donghyuck has only turned 17. He is still 19. Summer is only a few weeks from its demise and they are outside, taking advantage of the last days of what he will later know as the ends of a lifetime but for now, he is only 19 and Donghyuck is only 17, and it is summer. He is lazing on the pool, his back sticking against the cheap plastic of the float like candy melted on gravel. His sunglasses shield him from the dreadful afternoon oppressiveness but even then, the heat burns hard behind his eyes. He dips his fingers into the water as if to channel the chill into him.

Instead of water, he would rather much caress Donghyuck who is lounging under an umbrella, all arms and legs and skin and sun. And suddenly, he is gripped with jealousy for the light that falls onto his flesh so generously, for the book in his hands and the attention it commands, for the things he sees and hears and the thoughts that have now occupied his mind.

Azaleas. Kim So Wol. 20th-century modern poet. Korea’s beloved. Bane of Lee Minhyung’s existence. He jumps off the float, submerges the world into beryl blue until winding white cleaves his sight, then staying until he feels his throat constrict like bubble tendrils have anchor his neck to the pressure of the water, he reemerges with a gasp, larger than life, greater than the sun. He treads water until he is at the edge of the pool, and folding his arms onto the marble, rests his chin on wet skin that has already begun to dry.

Donghyuck’s voice carries with the igneous wind as he recites, “Visit me, someday long after and I might say _I have forgotten/_ Blame me, in your heart, missing you so, _I have forgotten_ / Still blame me for all of that, not believing you, _I have forgotten_ / Today, yesterday, I did not forget you, but someday long after, _I have forgotten_.”

He stops then. Nothing more leaves his mouth. Minhyung knows. With Donghyuck, he always does. What do these words mean? Why has Kim So Wol written these stanzas? Why, why, why? It doesn’t matter. It’s just a poem. They are just words. But why would he write it this way? Why does he forget when he has not? What does it matter? Hyung, Hyung, Hyung. Donghyuck. Hyung. It doesn’t matter. It matters to me.

Then he is climbing out from the comfortable chill, out from where he has separated himself from Donghyuck, and as he does, liquid remnants follow the soles of his feet, and finally, he can feel his skin meet Donghyuck's inferno gaze. He wrenches the book from his hands and drawing an arc across the air, it lands where the ground has dampened, water seeping into the crumpled pages. He swallows Donghyuck’s indignant cries. On his tongue, there is the taste of sweet watermelon, of cold chlorine, of midsummer, of another July, of another year, of another kiss.

They part. He is hovering over Donghyuck. Water drips from his hair, souses Donghyuck’s face, slides down dark expanses, into his white t-shirt. He mouths at Donghyuck’s neck, leaves a mark. Donghyuck shies from him. Stop. Your mother is at home. So what. So fucking what. What if she sees? Let her. It doesn’t matter. It matters to me. Are you ashamed of me?

Donghyuck grabs his face. His fingers lighting a thousand fires on his cheeks, the hot warmth ghosting his lips, and his body as wet as Minhyung’s, and his voice saying, “Never. Never, Minhyung Hyung.”

Am I your favorite? Always. Prove it. How? Swear on it. I swear on it. You can’t leave me. If you do, I’ll die. I’ll die, do you hear me? I would be dead before you even leave. I’ll die the moment you think of it. Never, Hyung. Never, never, never. I am yours. Yours, yours, yours. Always. I’ll never forget. I’ll never leave. Never. Always.

Always.

Always and forevers and eternities and till death do us parts—these words as if they were the four horsemen of the apocalypse idling in the affection they share, breeding unspeakable vows, birthing cruel bargains, these words, how capricious, how thoughtless, how carefree, these words, how irresponsible, how fickle, how immoral.

Always—that word spoken by Donghyuck, that word, believed by Minhyung.

It leaves him moments after he departs from the airport. Quietly and softly, it perishes like the last vernal of the midyear months. If he can no longer recall it, had it really happened?

* * *

He wakes into the routine clamor of the hospital. He has grown familiar to the hums of the machines and the uncomfortable sensation of an intravenous attached to him like an extra appendage. His head hums. Eunji can’t stand to look at him. She tells him so. Minhyung tells her he feels the same. Mirrors have become an enemy he hadn’t known he would make and self-loathing has become a friend. She gets Taeyong who steps in minutes later, white coat, white shirt, manila chart under his arm. Tests, lights, more tests, more lights.

“It shifted.”

Minhyung is confused for just the slightest seconds. What has? Oh. The tumor. He is still a bit disoriented. He retches into a bucket. Huh. He hadn’t known it had been there. Though he has an inkling it’s not the first time he’s vomited since he’s been admitted. Maybe he’s forgotten. He’s good at that. Forgetting. Leaving. Eunji runs a hand down his back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

“Okay.”

Okay, he says. What is he supposed to say? What is there to say? He has little desire to open his mouth. It feels as if his guts might spill if he does. Taeyong purses his lips. He says, “In the most respectful way, this might be a good thing. It seems as if the new location provides greater access and more room for us to work with. Rather than waiting till June, would you be inclined to operate sooner? It’s a slim window of opportunity and I cannot predict when it will shift again. I can schedule you for Thursday if that is something you’re considering.”

If Minhyung had the energy he would laugh. Only a few weeks ago, he had been on his knees, his heart’s blood in his tears, his breaths caught in his throat, as he cried like a petulant child who has been kept from his favorite toy, as he lost all ego and sanity like a scavenger who took what he could get, pleaded, urged, begged for God to grant him a reprieve of which has now been so graciously given to him, its claws shoved down his throat, and him who is forced to swallow it whole.

Life is borrowed time. For Minhyung, it happens that he is in debt. In fact, he has borrowed more time than he can pay, and now he has run himself into a deficit. He is bankrupt and has resolved to liquidate his moments, as he trades one memory for another.

He is supposed to have until June.

* * *

They settle the details in a single afternoon. What will determine Minhyung’s fate between life and death concludes within sentences. Thursday morning. Dress lightly. Do not eat breakfast. Do not even drink water. It will be a seven-hour surgery if things go well. If things go to shits, well, it doesn’t matter how long it takes, does it?

Eunji stays as long as she can. Sitting by his side, she rubs his back, scratches his head. Later in the day, she leaves to return to the company. Some time even later, he manages to fall asleep, surrounded by all thoughts and no thoughts. Inside the realm, belonging to the roots of his conscience, where everything is cold and black and nothing, not even the vapors of his breaths live, he says Donghyuck’s name like a spell as if to bring life into the void.

He says it enough his pronunciation slurs and his tongue begins to curl on the syllables like he is saying it for the very first time. Will it be like this after he dies? Will it always be like this, him, despairing in this emptiness bereft of light?

He imagines inside his imagination. The desperateness overwhelms him. Donghyuck. Donghyuck. He fears he has already died. Ten years ago, in Busan, in autumn, in Donghyuck’s decision, in Minhyung’s recklessness. The both of them. They’ve died a long time ago. He blinks. The late afternoon glow floods his vision. His phone is ringing. Jaemin.

“Where are you?”

He scratches the clear tape attached to his arm. Underneath, the IV bulges from pale skin. He says, “At the office. What’s wrong?”

Through the phone, Jaemin breaths come heavy.

“I can’t do this anymore. I’m going to tell him.”

He fights to keep his mind steady, though, he has already thrown the sheets off. He steps onto the floor. The bucket, which has been replaced several times, knocks into the IV pole. 

“You won’t,” he rips the tape. Then he pulls the IV out. He has had many practices. Blood soars, lands crimson against white bedding. “Jaemin, you can’t.”

“I can. And I will. I’ve thought about it for the last two weeks. This isn’t a good idea. I don’t know how you talked me into this,” Jaemin says. Distinct sounds of a pen tapping against a hard surface filter from the phone. “You don’t know the things he’s been messaging me. Hyung, there’s got to be a better way than this.”

Minhyung pulls onto his shirt, then his pants. He keeps the phone steady between his ears and shoulder, head tilted at an angle as he slides into his shoes. “You’ll ruin him,” he says. Where is his belt? By the couch. He repeats, “You’ll ruin him, Jaemin.”

“That’s not on me, Minhyung Hyung.”

The words, once spoken, cannot be taken back, though Minhyung knows, from the syllables bitterly lined with honesty, Jaemin had meant his sentiments. The candid statement without ambiguity, without doubt, rings true in his ears, and the initial strength to deny and to refute leaves him. Then Jaemin says, “I’m calling him tonight. Whether you stay or you go, that is up to you. But I don’t want to do this to him anymore, Hyung. He doesn’t deserve this. Neither do you.”

Jaemin waits for his response. Minhyung opens his mouth. Not even empty air leaves. There he is, standing under an orange spotlight, mouth wide open, eyes searching for answers on the shadows of the walls. The phone goes dead seconds later. His arm slumps to his side.

He leaves. The nurses let him go. They’ve long given up on trying to stop him. He has gained a reputation for himself in recent years. It doesn’t make much of a difference. He’ll be back in three days. He catches a taxi, takes it to the penthouse. No one is home. It’s too early. He runs to his room, packs his bag, stalks his way to the door, sees the black case propped by the living room. He stops. Counts to ten. Swings the case onto his back.

He drives to the airport.

* * *

The cedars and junipers soar ominously above him arrowing the night sky bathed in absolute darkness, blacker than onyx, heavier than mountains. Tar spills into the endless expanse. It is as if he’d entered a different dimension, a world where Sunshine Town avoided the sun and the air reeked with the strong stench of growing storms poise in the near distance like apex predators stalking their kills.

Minhyung cannot tell his hands from his feet, his head from his heart, nor the violent roars inside his blood, strumming loud in his ears. He parks the car hazardously, stumbles onto gravel, then drunk with nerves edging into hysteria, he ventures upstairs, his steps falling into the pulses of his flesh.

He sees Donghyuck, collapsed in the arms of a man, who he will later register as Wong Yukhei, but for now, he can only focus on the surging swells of chaos nested in him as they assault his rationality, drag him from reality, tip the delicate scale he has kept precariously balanced with pretenses and Minhyung sees black, blacker than the sky.

He breaks the air, his anger and jealousy tears through empty space, through Yukhei’s arms, through the breaths between him and a May night, lands in a harvest of sorrow. Donghyuck falls into his arms, weeps into his neck, chants his name sounding of truth upon his lips, like a cigarette, it circles the evening like smoke, like a mantra, it blooms in his mind. He is holding delicate light in glass. He is holding the world in his arms.

And Minhyung knows now, with dogmatic conviction, he has done this. He has done this, unknowingly, knowingly, the sins he has committed, the blood on his hand, and Donghyuck’s cries riding the wind until he cannot tell the difference between the sea and his grief. He has done this.

Lee Minhyung has ruined Lee Donghyuck.

* * *

Yukhei has grown from the last time Minhyung has seen him some years ago in that dingy bar outside a loud alleyway wet with autumn rain. He doesn’t stop Minhyung from carrying Donghyuck to bed, whether it is because of Donghyuck’s iron grip around his neck, or because Donghyuck seems to be forcing every bit of his body onto Minhyung’s as if it were a doctrine of his flesh, has no bearing.

Long after, when Donghyuck becomes exhausted, his strength leaving him like the last of lights, finally daring to let Minhyung go with utter reluctance, and his sleeping length buried underneath clouds of sheets, Minhyung leaves the room.

Yukhei is waiting for him at the kitchen table. Sharp eyes, strong lines, Minhyung knows a storm when he sees one. He is the one most familiar with them, after all. He sits, braids his fingers. What does Yukhei see? He swallows a tired sigh, skims the room.

“Where is Minhyuck?”

Yukhei raises a brow, bites his lips as if he doesn’t want to share the information with Minhyung, until he does, and he says, almost unwillingly, “At Sanha’s.”

Minhyung nods. He falters. How strange that a silent room can be so loud. He wonders if Yukhei remembers him. The words and secrets they’d exchanged under a white night. Only when he finds the courage to look up, meet his eyes, blazing with an unnamed emotion close to anger but less than fury does he find his answer.

“Mark Lee,” he says.

Minhyung nods, waits for him to continue, counts the drops from the faucet as Yukhei gathers his words. He reaches four. Yukhei continues, “I tried to contact you, you know. I went to your office. The one in Yeouido. But the security wouldn’t let me through. Said I had no right to be there. To meet you.”

“How did you know?”

Yukhei scoffs. “It’s not rocket science. I meet a rich stranger. I tell the stranger my sob story. A week later, I get a notice saying my tuition has been paid,” he smiles and Minhyung swears he had not known a smile can be so cruel. “It doesn’t mean shit though. Don’t think I’ll be thanking you on my knees. It doesn’t mean shit knowing the money came from you.”

Minhyung scrubs his face. His fingers drag lines across his features. He begins to say, “Donghyuck and I,” and as soon as the words breach the space, Yukhei cuts him off. He is glad. Truthfully, he had not known where the sentence would be heading.

“He is Haechan now. Even if he isn’t, you don’t deserve to say his name,” he says and this, Minhyung agrees. He cannot fault Yukhei for all he says are truths. “Not once in the last ten years did he mention you. Not once. Not when he’d suffered, not when he’d cried.” He shakes with agitation, runs a hand through his hair.

“I have not had him once but I have lost him a thousand times.”

There is an apology ready on Minhyung’s tongue. He keeps it there. It wouldn’t be right to voice it. 

”I’ve seen you on T.V. You’re married, aren’t you? Don’t you have a kid too? So, what are you doing here? Do you think he needs you? Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t. He—“

“He does,” Minhyung says. The seconds that follow drowns his words in a haunted stillness. Because these too, are truths, as genuine and undeniable as Yukhei’s speech where it’d seem he had been trying to convince himself more than he’d been convincing Minhyung. “He needs me as much as I need him. Even you, who love him so, cannot take this away from him. He will resent you.”

In this aged kitchen, where a broken faucet serves as their symphony, and the light grows dimmer with the evening, they speak truths into their breaths and seek veracities in each other’s gaze. No one has spoken a lie. There is nothing to establish. No one to persuade. And yet, a burdensome oppressive seem to have settled in the tension between them. Yukhei cannot refute his words just as Minhyung cannot refute his. These truths extinguish their next words, killing the oxygen feeding their thoughts, though smoke remains.

Minhyung yields. He says, “Tonight, he needs me.”

The distinction is clear. It is not an ultimatum.

Simply, a truth.


	30. Chapter 30

A bleached moon eclipses the night. For Minhyung who has emptied his mind, it could have been a blood-red and he would not have known. He can hardly taste the cigarette, though hot on his tongue, bitter in his breaths, and all around him, as implacable anger with its sharp claws grappled to his body.

Invisible misery cuts deep into fear. What does Donghyuck know? How much does he know? More than that, does it matter? How should he justify himself? Are confessions and justifications even worth it at this point? What does it matter? What does it all matter?

Those glorious golden days, the blanching white sky, bottomless oceans sounding loud in their ears, tropical sand weaving through the hot spots of their naked toes, wind, so much wind carving crests between their hair, limbs, eyes. He feels silly to have let himself get swept up in those ripen days as if anything other than regret could have been born into their world. Even calling it their world is naivety on his part. Because what it is, is this: there is Donghyuck’s world and there is Minhyung’s world, but what there isn’t is their world.

The door closes with a bare click into the silence. If it were not for the bells ringing downstairs, silvery and clear like calls signifying something careless and indifferent of which he does not share, this too, he would not have known. Yukhei’s back retreats into the darkened road.

There is no place for him here. There is hardly any room for Minhyung, for Donghyuck, the ambiguous relationship they share, the grief they would not allow each other to forget, the spoiled affection that continues to linger despite consequences. The flame flickers, burns, dies in the night.

He returns to Donghyuck’s room, which had been Minhyung’s room, sees Donghyuck sleeping on his bed, which had been Minhyung’s bed, swaddled in sheets that had touched Minhyung’s skin just mere nights prior in which he had dreamt lucid dreams, contaminated, defiled the laundered bedding with impure lecherous thoughts. Donghyuck’s breath loiters between inhales and exhales, like stagnant and delayed choices.

Minhyung smooths the folded creases on his face, his fingers dawdling between the strands of hair framing his features with the delicate movements of butterflies resting on flowers. His flesh tasting of salt, his scent overwhelming with devotion, his touch, gentle and kind, greedy and keeping—these truths, more important, more meaningful than any other truths Minhyung knows, he will not forget.

Never. Always.

* * *

Minhyung leaves, falls into the couch with the finesse of a drunkard. Bulbs of fairy lights wax a thousand ball of ivory in his lids. He sheds his jacket, loosens his tie, throws both across the arm of the couch, then he curls into the soft leather creased from the years.

Though his eyes remain close, his mind stays awake, its wings beating a rapid rhythm. He cannot follow his thoughts which have taken flight into treacherous heights. He lets them go. He will not pursue them. It will not do him any good. He attempts to sleep. The seconds and minutes lapse into one another. 

He stays awake. Donghyuck is awake too. Minhyung knows, knew it perhaps from the moment he blinked his eyes opened into what might have been possible confusion or delusion, fevered, hot, disturbed. He does not have to open his eyes or to see physical proof because when it comes to Donghyuck, even if Minhyung does not know, should not know, he does and he will. The two of them, they are connected by things far ancient and far sinister than a simple passion.

The floor creaks. It is an old house. The slightest movements are no different from the cries of a thousand banshees trapped inside the woods and how could Minhyung not have known?

If not for the floor, then for the searing air that kisses his face and mingles with his own, his breaths becoming Donghyuck’s, Donghyuck’s becoming his, until he cannot tell the difference between Donghyuck’s breathing and his breathing or if they have been breathing on behalf of one another this entire time or maybe in the steps between their room and the couch, from where he’d reclaimed Donghyuck from the arms of another man to all the nicotine nights under black skies, white skies, blue skies, they have been breathing as one entity this entire time.

Donghyuck pulls the ring from his finger with greater strength than necessary, scorn replacing the absence of sense, and when it falls onto the table, the seconds longer than seconds in Minhyung’s vision, it hits the remote controls with an air of finality.

Finally, all semblance of reason in the form of false civility decays in that one moment. Donghyuck, who has not once turn from him as if there is nothing else in this apartment that is worth his attention, says, “Can you hold me? You don’t have to say anything. I just need you to hold me.”

Minhyung searches the depths of his eyes, though, for what, even he isn’t sure. He is like an augur, seeking signs of an omen, good omen, bad omen, everything in between.

“Please hold me, Minhyung Hyung.”

How can he say such words, knowing what it will mean? How can Donghyuck be so cruel, to ask him for such favor, knowing Minhyung cannot deny him? He pushes Donghyuck away. He thinks, you do not want this. You must not want this. I am offering you an out. You must take it.

Donghyuck takes it. Donghyuck takes it with wild tears cool on his cheeks, with violent wracks overtaking his shoulders, the dimness of his eyes impossibly dark even with a thousand suns around them. He muffles his weeping into the blues of his wrist, walks from Minhyung on unsteady feet, his visage horrifically beautiful in a sorrow belonging only to him.

Don’t look, don’t look, you must not look. The door remains opened. Donghyuck’s cries break into the silence. Minhyung looks. His silhouette alighted under the brilliance of copper wired glow stands desperately sorrowful—poignant in his eyes. His kryptonite. The most horrid images are the hardest to look away from. Minhyung has lost. A hypocrite to his words, seduced by Donghyuck’s tragic beauty, he follows him into their room.

Then, he falls into their bed.

* * *

Minhyung presses himself into Donghyuck who is pressing himself into Minhyung. The water grows cold, then colder still. The borders of their body contour a picture of a large creature with two heads, four arms, four legs, skin everywhere. Two hearts beat in the motionless quiet, loud in the blood rushing to their ears but mute in the air. The water drains, narrowing into a dark hole like sand falling into the tapered neck of an hourglass.

Minhyung wipes Donghyuck. This too, he has done. Many, many summers and suns and skies ago. They return to bed. Donghyuck falls asleep no sooner than the first calls of cicadas by their window.

His back, curled into Minhyung’s chest, shoulders smooth and bronze, hair, long, damped, creating dark shadows on the pillow—everything grows harsh, sharp, a moment that has entombed itself in the place where precious memories are deposited and safeguarded.

He allows himself one moment. Then one more moment. Then another and he realizes he must go now. This is what he will lose forever if he does not. He cannot have this without letting it go. He cannot have this. Donghyuck must have felt this way, almost ten years ago, that dying autumn morning. Donghyuck must have known. Felt it in his heart of hearts the way Minhyung feels this in his.

The two of them, they have always been the same. The same grief, the same sorrow, a hollow tragedy that belongs only to them. Minhyung cannot keep anything but this. He pulls away.

Then, he calls Yukhei on Donghyuck’s phone.

* * *

Minhyung waits downstairs, dressed, hair combed, cigarette between his teeth, late morning all around him. Sun, sea, the ends, and beginnings of something great with each burst of vapor. Yukhei storms the short-pebbled path leading up to the café. Strong fingers capture the wrinkled folds of his collar, nails him to the door.

The glass shakes, vibrates into the wind, and he hears the bells parrot their own echoes. His back catches the ends of the paper cranes. It drags into the flowering crevice between the building and the ground. Yukhei’s fury puts anger to shame. Teeth pulled back into an expression like a wild rabid dog with its eyes on his prey, he gifts Minhyung with a snarl rivaling the most turbulent storms of the night.

He says, “You are the worst thing to have happened to him,” and even if he had not said the words, Minhyung would have said it himself. Still, he cannot touch Minhyung. Minhyung’s punishment is not for him to deal. That burden belongs to one person only.

Yukhei throws him into the ground. His hands catch sharp rocks, blood pinpointing from ripped palms. Besides him, from where it has fallen, the cigarette fights to stay alive. He lies there, still, a corpse of the morning light listening to the calls of the birds flittering. They rise above him.

He should not be here.

* * *

“Ahjussi!”

Minhyung takes a step back, thrown off by Minhyuck’s sheer strength as he catapults himself into Minhyung’s open arms. He heaves Minhyuck upwards cutting the distance between him and space.

Minhyuck’s smile sheathes happiness on the curve of his grin. It catches sunlight, keeps it in his teeth, pours into his gums. His cheeks are rosy. And so it rises, higher and higher still. Then, it falls, like a balloon with holes, phasing into something flat.

“Ahjussi, what’s wrong?”

He’s frowning. The senses of his face dip low. He must have seen it on Minhyung’s face. He must know. Even if he doesn’t, he must’ve. How could Minhyung have ever let him know? He runs a hand through overrun hair, sweat nesting on Minhyuck’s forehead, transfers wet on the pads of his finger.

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong. Let’s go home, Minhyuck-ah.”

* * *

It is suffocating. The air. The dark. The dead silence. It is like being underwater. Murky where it is supposed to be clear. Eternal where it is supposed to end. Cold all over. Cold in the indents of their body that had shifted within these beddings only hours ago, still holding the faintest smells of their skin.

Cold in the hush lull and the white moon and the empty breeze and the betrayal fostered over low lights. This is what he deserves. This is what he should keep. There is nothing else he should covet.

There is nothing he will take.

* * *

In the morning, they exchange niceties over clementine tea. Light falls over Donghyuck. He is resplendent. He is magnificent. A cloud breezing overhead, a star clear in the void, the last vivid colors of summer possessable only to himself. Donghyuck. Minhyuck.

“You’re my favorite, Appa.”

“You’re my favorite too.”

_Am I your favorite? Always. Prove it. How? Swear on it. I swear on it._ Minhyung falls further still.

* * *

Minhyuck is showing him a drawing he’d made for Donghyuck two years ago. In it, they are treading the sea, a taller figure next to a smaller figure next to the boundless unknown, clumsy cerulean mixing into a crayon yellow.

After, he shows Minhyung the English test he’d scored an A on. It’s dated from some weeks ago, maybe, just three weeks before Minhyung’s arrival. He asks Minhyung for an English name. One that is like Mark Ahjussi’s. Minhyung tells him there is no need for one. Minhyuck is a good name. He writes the hanja into his small palm, a kind brilliance. Gracious light. Minhyuck preens.

He skips to his desk, pulls a Lego model from one of the drawers. From Sanha. From last Christmas. Then, the row of stuffed animals from Jeno. His favorite red sweater from Jaemin. The gold bracelet he always wears. Also from Jaemin, from when he was a baby. His favorite red mechanical pencil with the blue eraser top, the one he uses only on exam days. The clear mason jar he’d pilfered from the café to keep his collection of seashells. Inside, there is the pink conch Donghyuck had held up to his ears. How has it only been days since then?

Eventually, he runs out of things to show Minhyung. The fan is on. It blows sticky currents over them. Minhyuck throws a leg over the sheets. He’s grown quiet. His previous enthusiasm drifts.

Recognition of his privilege settles in him then. To get to know the things that make him happy, the things he holds nearest to his heart, the people he regards with pure affection. How’d easy Minhyuck had made it. Perhaps, in another life, past, future, they would have the luxury to know more. More of each other’s expression, more stories that have made them who they are. See the same sceneries, breathe the same air, live a shared life.

Minhyuck grabs the edge of his shirt. In the dark, his ivory skin becomes one with the fabric and he says, “Don’t go, Ahjussi. Stay. With Minhyuck. With Appa. Why can’t you stay? Don't you like us?”

And Minhyung wishes to tell him, he has never once left. Even when he has forgotten, even when he will be forgotten, in the near future, in the far future, he will never leave.

But he knows too, these words will fall deaf onto the ears of a child who only understands what he sees, and even a child as smart and intuitive as Minhyuck will not understand even if Minhyung suspects, in the long depths of his soul, the understanding exists, though he refuses to see.

Father and son, adult and child, they are all the same. Caught up in the same bullshit. He runs a thumb over Minhyuck’s knuckle, blanched on the tightness of his fist.

“Take care of your Appa, okay? You must take care of him.”

He looks at Minhyuck who looks back with a gaze more profound than the most sagacious of philosophers, deeper than the sharp declines of a high cliff overlooking even sharper cliffs.

Immediately, desperate gentleness morphs into measured spite. Bitterness overtakes the places that once held zeal. He rips himself from Minhyung, rolls to his side, faces the other side of the room. Minhyung will not fault him.

He stays until the shaking has stopped.

* * *

The bouquet of rapeseed he’d received near two weeks ago has dried into a faded yellow. He’d forgotten about them. Minhyung sees them from the front mirror of his car. The flowers sit pathetically in the back of the seat. It must have been an hour since he’d left. His flight has long gone, though that is the least of his worries.

Thunder strikes loud behind the mountains. He drapes himself over the wheels. Donghyuck swims in his vision. He’d been especially beautiful tonight. The kind of things one would speak of in those disastrous Greek mythologies, the ill-fated lives of heroes and beauties alike, cursed by heavenly beings, and sentenced to a fatal end. Forbidden. Untouchable.

Perhaps it is the rain or the clouds or because it had been the end. The conclusiveness of it all fills him with greed. He hoards the last image of Donghyuck, the last breath of a dying man.

The beginnings of Donghyuck. The ends of Donghyuck. Everything in between. His tragic beauty enclosed in the greying mist of petrichor. Murderous ocean cries loud in the night. Heart falls fast. The inevitability of a long-awaited conclusion.

He runs.

* * *

Minhyung holds Donghyuck close.

The lines of their body are parallel to one another, then once again, intersecting in the cross-sections between, until it feels like even the slither of air within has become too great and too far of a distance. Emptiness becomes a barrier obstructing his flesh from Donghyuck’s and he presses himself closer until he is sure every space has been filled.

His mouth becoming Donghyuck’s, Donghyuck’s becoming his. Yearning pours into desire into yearning into desire mixing with their spit. Equal part tenderness fights with untamed hunger to consume all sensibility. Donghyuck bites into his shoulder to shelter his lewd cries of which the pain begins to exacerbate the flame inside of him.

The years apart matter little. Confidence lives in his movements, his muscles moving along to Donghyuck’s softness like wild ocean waves, an assurance more certain, more faithful than the colors of a sky, or the rhythm of great winds.

He kisses his ankle, pink, smooth on his tongue, then his wet thighs, holding Minhyung still, and his scar, stark white running just above his pelvis. He finds Donghyuck’s warmth in his fingers, and his heart under his palm. He finds Donghyuck and Donghyuck finds him.

Minhyung Hyung, Minhyung Hyung, Hyung, Hyung, Hyung, Donghyuck sings into his soaked hair, a song like a hymn, like an incantation by which every note enchants him. He has been spellbound. Whisked away to the place where summers are immortal and the heat lives eternal in the red of their lids.

The both of them, they have always been hollowed.

The both of them, they have always been waiting.

* * *

Everything dies in a single night. Their cheap charades burn with thunder strikes, contorted senses fading into the storm. 

Minhyuck runs fast. So fast he blurs into the darkness, metamorphosing into a small creature of the night, his steps forged into the wet dirt serving as the only proof of his existence. Blinding purple collides into the atmosphere, punches loud, lightens the night for a split second.

A split second is all Minhyung has. Minhyuck plunges. Minhyung jumps. A cold, like ice, like the stark vastness of winter, slams into him, like concrete, like mountains crashing into his body.

He does not hear Donghyuck’s screams. Everything has become black. The angry sea drags him like a ragged doll. He fights. He must fight.

From the depths, gold glimmers, and so he swims. 


	31. Chapter 31

Minhyung slips from him. Donghyuck’s hand grazes air. Something vile clambers from his throat. It flies, carries to the sky, soars and gathers with thunder and lightning, the dreary monsoon descending like falling fire, brutal pricks on his exposed arm. He wrestles the storm.

His fragmented wails, forced from the pit of his stomach, mangled like severed entrails but with the sharpness of shattered glass, compete with the deafening wild of fierce tides and crescendoing winds. Short bursts of electric white color his vision and black crests ride undulated and undaunted beyond. Like rising dusk, they grow dark, manipulated by things he cannot control, bending and swelling, falling then mounting to even greater heights.

His forearm presses into the jagged lines of the steep rocks. Flesh, like the pale pink of salmon, blooms from the open abrasions. He grabs into the emptiness, his fingers coming to capture cold air. He holds it in his palm. Infinite black conquers the night. Sky becomes sea, and sea becomes earth, and Donghyuck does not know if the howls inside his ears are from the raging winds or products of his lungs which have begun to contract quick and tight in his chest.

The depths of the earth beckon him forward, the hair on his arms rising, and he gravitating to its tempestuous calls, only screaming louder when the ground disappears from him, realizing someone has picked him up to drag him into the muddy flat behind, his body recoiling into the warmth of another.

The distance between him and everything he has, everything he had, grows further like loose light from the crevices of where the side of his fingers don’t meet, until he can no longer see the tumultuous waters but the sound of their angry moans continues to whine in his ears.

He kicks against the force, flails his arms, hands catching a face, and then he is shaken, his tunnel vision blurring harsher still, and he must be trashing now, like a fresh fish about to be filet, his breaths, barely keeping up with the almost demonic measures of his heart, that has fallen from a height he had not known he had held it, into a place he cannot reach.

He pushes and he drives and he pushes even harder from Yukhei’s arms until he drives himself into the dirt, his body sliding easily on wet soil, and his knees giving in to gravity, and he, like a tumbleweed, rolling repeatedly, wiping a clean path down the incline he’d ran only moments ago, across razor rocks, asymmetrical lines, and his gasps held inside his throat like the wretched things inside Pandora’s box. He stills and the word stills with him. Eyes half-lidded, the black waves careens in the distance.

He reaches an arm out.

* * *

Donghyuck does not wake, which does not speak of his inability to do so but instead a matter relating to his desire to stay asleep. If he could, he would will his eyes to be closed forever, like the shuttered gates to an abandoned store, and to keep his mind between dying and living, the edges brimming today’s and tomorrow’s, and the shades of a red turning crimson, turning black, then a peace only found in the stark silence of a reality that made no noise.

He had not realized what a loud world he’d been living in until he experienced his agony, blasted and exposed for all to see and hear like booming speaker systems resonating so loud, his skin vibrated with the sheer intensity of its power.

He cries then, unbidden, soundless first, then his weeping muffled by the pillow smelling like antiseptic, then growing louder mimicking the crests and troughs he had seen the waves make, then finally without restraint, without humanity, until his wails cripple, becoming sounds channeled to dusty corners, open windows, the lines running along his arms and attached to beeping machines, and him unconsciously searching for answers he does not have the courage to receive.

He wants to confine himself to this moment. A strong fervor to wallow in this torment chokes him because even knowing there exist several outcomes, all of which have established themselves to be far from the only one he is willing to accept, even thinking it strikes him with tender distress, far more painful, far more horrifying than anything he has ever known he is capable of feeling.

Yukhei cups his cheeks then, and his mouth begins to move, and Donghyuck knows, with strong faith, as true as his current desperation, if the words are not the ones he wants to hear, the only words he is willing to hear, nothing, not even the teachings of Buddha or God would stop him from committing to a decision he cannot return from.

Yukhei must have seen the fear in his eyes then, the way it circles and rims the circumference of his irises, the murkiness becoming him, and him, becoming one with the terror. Like a messiah, he speaks.

* * *

They were found on the shore of the next town by a villager who’d been taking an early morning walk, unconscious and drenched, like leftover seaweeds washed upon the coast, promptly transferred to the only hospital in the near vicinity, which had been the same hospital Yukhei had brought him to after he’d slipped and thrown himself down the cliff, nearly concussing himself on the rocky boulders.

Donghyuck’s ribs are bruised. They bloom patches of ugly purple pigmenting his chest like he’d been submerged for too long in a tub of dye. It hurts when he breathes, when he is sitting upright for too long, still, he cannot bring himself to leave Minhyuck’s room, nor the side of his bed which has become his home for the last hours.

Minhyuck wears an oxygen mask. He does not talk much. Donghyuck reckons it is hard for him to focus. He weaves in and out of slumber from all the medications the nurses have pumped him with. It is fine. Donghyuck does not need him to say anything. There is nothing Donghyuck asks for except the constant rise and fall of his chest.

Sometime later, Minhyuck fights invisible enemies. Earlier, the nurses had warned him it would happen, still, seeing it terrifies him. The hardening of Minhyuck’s limbs, movements like a possession of his body by things he will not allow himself to say or think, it all burns hot in his memories.

Donghyuck holds him as the nurses sedate him. His body goes lax in Donghyuck’s arms. He wonders where Minhyuck is. Donghyuck wishes he can go. Minhyuck must be terrified. He shoves his face into Minhyuck’s hair. It carries the faintest proofs of the ocean, and underneath, the distinct smell of their shampoo. Donghyuck pulls him closer so that even if he were to disappear, Donghyuck will go with him, no matter how far or how near the world wants to take him to.

Donghyuck will follow.

* * *

Donghyuck is standing outside Minhyung’s room. They are separated by glass, ten steps, and consciousness away. He is asleep. Donghyuck does not know if it is the good kind of sleep or the bad kind of sleep or the kind of sleep you will never wake up from. He is not allowed to know. He is also not allowed inside the room. The doctors and nurses will not tell him anything unless he is an immediate family member. He assumes Eunji has already been contacted.

It is not anger that fills him but a plentiful sorrow that leaks and he imagines it pouring from him, voluminous and cold so that it would drown out the words. What do they know? There is no one who is closer to Lee Minhyung than Lee Donghyuck is. There is no immediateness they do not share. They are more family than the blood he shares with those written in the law. But what do they know?

Donghyuck who knows Minhyung and his skin, as familiar as his own, his words, as native as the thoughts inside his mind, and him, who Donghyuck can recognize in meetings, in partings, and even in the worlds where they know nothing of each other, Donghyuck will know. But they do not know. And really, what does Donghyuck know?

Knowing does him no good. It brings him trouble the way summer brings heatwaves and winter brings snowstorms and spring brought Lee Minhyung and it would be better if everyone lived on in ignorance, content with the things they think they know, and the things they should not know.

Standing there, in his drabby hospital gown, his ribs throbbing hard like rolling rocks in his abdomen, he tries to think of the last time he’d felt anything but this constant ache of loneliness that has made itself a home in his heart.

And he recognizes now, regardless of whatever he’d allowed himself to feel in his most vulnerable moments, it has always been there and like dust to his air, he cannot separate himself from it. It has always been there, this irrevocable sadness, all-consuming, all-encompassing, and Lee Minhyung, his shadows, as attached to Donghyuck as his own is.

Minhyung sleeps on and Donghyuck recalls how he’d once told him, under a cool night, that sometimes, when Minhyung dreamt, he’d imagined them dying together, and long after their worldly body rotted away, they were still together, by the remnants of their ghosts dancing with the stars.

Donghyuck wonders if they are dancing now.

* * *

Sometime between splitting his attention between worrying for Minhyuck, then Minhyung, then a combine concerned for the two, he’d neglected Yukhei. He does not do it purposely or maybe he does.

It’s hard to filter his thoughts these days, categorizing them as true or false, and it’s strange that he has to do it at all, for if they are his thoughts, why would there exist a need to comb through them as if to find a stowaway that had managed to slip in without notice in moments he’d hadn’t thought he’d needed to be guarded?

Thoughts are like that though. You can say one thing and think of another or think to say what you thought you’d say only for you to say the things you haven’t even thought. Committing to a single thought scares him as much as giving a definite answer to even the things he knows are true, so he swings from one side to another, and he does it now with Yukhei, who, when Donghyuck sees, evokes images of Minhyung standing on his balcony, smoke, rain, thunder all around, and his voice telling Donghyuck words he has no desire to hear or to be told again for he knows the words even before they are said.

Later, after bringing him breakfast, Yukhei leaves to bring new clothes for him. Renjun takes his place, coddling him, then coddling Minhyuck who is sleeping, and amid all his thoughts that are not his thoughts and his words that are not his words, the exhaustion catches up but it is as if there is a vacuum inside of him, except that it is unlimited and boundless, and regardless of how drained the last hours has had on him, he cannot find it in himself to sleep or to rest or to eat, his wasted state fed by his anxiety and unease becoming larger than he’d thought he would be able to contain.

His doubts, the only thing he can claim as his own, it goes and goes—like a river that has no ends or beginnings as it heads into no direction or a birthmark that has always been there.

* * *

Eunji arrives early afternoon. Donghyuck is staring out the window, residues of post stormy nights swimming in his eyes and Renjun’s mindless chatters in the background. He hears the car before he sees it. The black sedan pulls in front of the entrance, wheels against asphalt like nails against chalkboards, abrupt not unlike the desperateness of someone who had only been moments away from a horrible accident and for a long second, Donghyuck had thought it would flip itself in its haste.

It does not, of course, and the door opens before the car has the chance to come to a full stop. He sees Jaemin first, then Jeno, then Eunji, a small child in her arms, and then another man who Donghyuck does not recognize, and it becomes clear to Donghyuck then, all his running and hiding and denying had served not to steer him from a place he had not been willing to go, but rather, it had led him exactly to it.

This is where he'd wanted to escape from and this is what he’d wished to avoid and still, this is where he ends up. His past merging with his present, his mistakes catching up to his regrets, and everything else, collateral damage in his ignorance and arrogance. There has never been a choice.

He draws away from the window, his knees weak, his throat, plugged with something he cannot remove, and him, falling into Minhyuck’s side. It is fine. Eunji is here now. She will take care of Minhyung the way Donghyuck cannot, not because he does not know how to but because he is not allowed, because he does it so well, it will only hurt Minhyung more than it will heal.

Things like these, Donghyuck knows he has to make peace with it now, if not to stop himself from doing what he cannot do, then to soothe the ache he will not let himself feel. This acceptance, unlike all the other thoughts in him, stands clear, a lantern upon a twilight, alighting a path he will take.

Then, just as suddenly, it snuffs. The door to Minhyuck’s room slams loud, cacophonous in a space that had been dominated by Renjun’s soft voice, then, falling away in the same breath it had been created in and it is only when Renjun makes an inquiring noise does he realize he is standing in the same space as Eunji who has married Minhyung, as Jaemin who has lied to him, as Jeno who has been complicit in it all, and a child, who shares Minhyung’s blood, who shares Minhyuck’s blood, who has nothing to do with Donghyuck, the way Donghyuck wants nothing to do with these people.

And still, when Eunji asks if he will come, and still, even as the betrayal saturates fresh in his stomach, the pain becoming wounds, wounds becoming scars, scars becoming missing, becoming memories, becoming the things that have never left Donghyuck, he goes.


	32. Chapter 32

Donghyuck is with Eunji. They are inside one of the consult rooms on the sixth floor, a few doors away from Minhyung and a few floors above Minhyuck, and all around them he sees translucent micro-dust freestyling in the air and his mind makes images of ballerinas dancing for an empty audience. Jaemin, Jeno, and the child he refuses to ask about are with Renjun and Minhyuck.

The man he’d seen earlier is with the doctor who oversees Minhyung. Currently, they are having an animated discussion outside the room, all hands and papers and raising brows and he knows Eunji is looking at him now but he does not want to look back so he pretends to be interested in the bandages on his arm from where he’d lacerated himself on hard cliff rocks and it is only after a glance of inspection does he realize he has been scratching at it the entire time causing the bandages to be soaked and for a moment it’d seemed like he had leeches to his skin, visible only to himself.

Eunji grabs his arm. Painted nails blend crimson with the blood on his skin and her hands as pale and as smooth as Minhyung’s and he imagines it is Minhyung who is grabbing him and he imagines it is Minhyung who slips from him.

He jerks. His elbow knocks into the penholder, spills stationaries across the table, breaths caught in his throat. He holds his arms to his chest and from where Eunji had touched him, it burns a stinging wound that has nothing to do with the open gashes he wears.

Eunji is as surprised as he is and when she apologizes, like approaching an injured animal on the road, such dissenting choices from Donghyuck’s violent reaction, and him, overcome with the greedy desire to confess he’d slept with Minhyung, that her husband had come back and chosen him above all, that even ten years of marriage could not compete with ten years of separation, that even after all this time, the only name Minhyung knows and will know is his own, he wonders if he is the only bad person in the room.

She smiles and he sees himself as twenty-one-year-old Minhyung falling for her pretty face and kind touches and long hair and white skin and brown eyes and Ko Eunji who is not Lee Donghyuck.

He’d caught them once. When he was fifteen and they were eighteen and sex had occupied their minds as easily as air held their breaths and inside the closet from where’d he hid in a panic he’d watched as Minhyung grabbed her hair, the black strands spilling like oil in his ivory fingers, his body thrusting inside her like a malfunctioning machine and everything becoming red in his eyes because he’d been so overwhelmed with anger, with jealousy, with lust and a disgusting greed urging him to be the one under Minhyung instead.

Eunji and Minhyung hadn’t been dating then. He’d remembered the confusion, the excessive drive, and questioning that if all Minhyung had needed was a body, why couldn’t it have been his? Of course, he could not have known the implications of his feelings then but even after he and Minhyung had gotten together, and Eunji had her string of accompaniment, he could never shake off the strange obsession that he had not been Minhyung’s first, or if there was ever a first before Eunji, or if there had been a first before the first, if there had been a zero, and to sixteen-year-old Donghyuck who’d viewed love as a mere line with one direction, one destination, it’d only seemed fitting for him to want to laid claim to all of Minhyung’s first the way Minhyung had with his own.

He hadn’t told Minhyung this but he’d felt cheated. Cheated of his body, his feelings, and a bond only they understood even before they established their relationship. Because deep inside, where things like reflexes and instincts live, a part of Donghyuck had always known they would end up together.

Even in the times when they were not, how could Minhyung have had laid eyes and hands on someone who wasn’t Donghyuck. Perhaps, the only comfort he’d brought upon himself had been to imagine himself as Minhyung, seeing all those other bodies as his own. Thinking of it now, it had been an arrogance that held no boundaries.

He wants to say he does not understand why he brings up these long memories but that would be a lie and for himself who understands better than anyone the repercussions of deceit, of hiding things that will not let themselves be hidden, dishonesty is the last thing he needs.

The reason why he has conjured up these childish sentiments that had plagued much of his adolescence is that in the back of his mind, his inkling about the possession over the years and affections he has shared with Minhyung has never really left him.

It is almost shameful the way he will not allow himself to admit it even after all this time, whether, as an ex-lover, as a father, as an adult who should have placed these regrets and longings in the past, but looking at Eunji now, her wedding ring in the direct line of his eyes, seeing Minhyung’s son who is not Minhyuck, knowing this is the woman who has spent the last ten years sleeping next to Minhyung, knowing this woman is the reason why he is allowed to sit in this room at all, knowing he has always been competing a lost competition from the beginning, all these knowing and not enough reconciling, it all brings him to a single point—the unbreakable connection between him and Minhyung like a knot that has been coiled then braided then tangled even when he’s run out of ends to tie.

This insidious bond that has never left, not in Busan, not when Minhyung left the first time then the second, not when they were together, not when they were apart before they became a couple and after when they became more, he has kept Lee Minhyung like he is a crucial element to what makes him, him, and it becomes vividly clear to him then, the binding reigns they have on each other, that if one were to attempt to force them apart, it would be the same as to put a bullet through one head with it exiting out the other.

The door opens, takes him from his thoughts, though they have already begun to retreat to the depths of his head like bats shielding from the sun, where they will no doubt breed even further stranger conclusions. Whatever Eunji had wanted to say is lost to the entrance of the man he’d seen arriving with the group.

He is professionally dressed, button-up shirt and tie and khaki pants, dark circles rimming his eyes, a dimness to his movements that speaks of long days and even longer nights. An attractive man with none of the light and glamour that usually accompanies beautiful people, he introduces himself as Dr. Lee Taeyong from Asan Medical Center in Seoul.

Dr. Lee takes a seat behind the desk and as he does, the afternoon glare filtering from the windows catches the top of his head and Donghyuck is reminded of stories of prophets descending from heaven bearing foreboding news and omens and prophecies.

He regards Donghyuck’s gaze first as if he were to examine a bomb with a countdown nearing zero and he does not see it now but later, long after they’ve exited the room to go back to the places they belong, Donghyuck will understand.

For now, he looks back with half curiosity and half anxiety until Dr. Lee gives Eunji a good meaningful stare, secret conversations lost to Donghyuck who is feeling more and more like an intruder on his own island. He becomes vaguely aware of his lack of credentials to even participate in the conversation they will soon be having or have already begun to have without him.

He feels something akin to annoyance then, as if he were a child in the middle of two adults, talking about things concerning him but not including him in the discussion as if to make a mockery of his ignorance or maturity or any one of the excuses people often say to justify themselves.

Donghyuck knows, knows more than he is probably allowed. Yet, it seems as if there is still more to be known but no one is willing to say the things that should be said or to break the delicate balance settled upon them even if said balance has already deviated from the equilibrium long ago.

What more is there to hide, he wonders. What more must they sacrifice to keep that crate full of deceit closed just for one more day of peace?

Dr. Lee must have seen the annoyance on his face, the urge to climb over the desk, pry his mouth open, stick his hand inside the depths of his throat to seize a truth from the one person who does not owe him it and Dr. Lee is sighing, running a hand down his face, then his fingers tracing the bridge of his nose, then another sigh and he says, “CT scan reveals intracranial bleeding most likely sustained from the impact of the fall. We will be performing a craniotomy to drain the bleeding,” he pauses, regards Donghyuck first, then Eunji, then Donghyuck again who has dug his nails hard enough into his thighs to construct little nests just right above his knees.

Then he says, “Prior to this, Minhyung had given us the consent to perform the excavation of his brain tumor. This can still be done while I am performing the first procedure and if I am not wrong and I am reading Minhyung’s wishes correctly, it would be preferable for us to complete it along with the craniotomy rather than to risk two open brain surgeries apart from one another as each additional solitude surgery increases the risk of brain death. However, given his condition, even with his previous verbal consent, we cannot perform the excavation without his next of kin’s permission.”

And Donghyuck knows then, all the lying, all the running, it all seems counterintuitive. You create one lie to hide one truth and you create another to hide one more until finally, you find that in your hands, there are nothing but lies with the truth nowhere to be found and you begin to question yourself, what was it that you wanted to hide in the first place and had all the hurting, all the pain and punishment you’ve given to yourself, to others, to those dearest to your heart, had it all been worth it?

His words flicker around him like broken lights, becoming louder with certain syllables then softening with the rest, sentences like snakes coiling around his neck, down the sides of his torso, wrapped around his heart; medical terms after medical terms after prognoses after numbers and percentages becoming uglier by the seconds and everything coming to a stilted silence when Dr. Lee leaves the room with the surgical consent forms left on the desk like a contract by the devil himself and not a millisecond later when the door closes behind him, he snatches the paper from where it had been sitting in front of Eunji, rips it in half, then in half again, once more for good measure, before crumbling it in his hands and holding it so tight in his palms, he wills it to disappear even though he knows, he has done nothing except having wasted a piece of paper in which the nurses will have no problem printing another one for Eunji to sign.

“You can’t do this to him,” he says to Eunji who is staring at him with something sad and pitiful and he imagines himself clawing through her face, skin, into flesh to see if she can still make the same expression underneath, and then almost comically hypocritical to how he’d wanted to treat Eunji as if he’d been living in a satire of life, he falls onto his knees, grabs the long lengths of her dress, and he begs into her hands which have already begun to wet from his tears, “Please don’t sign it. Please don’t do this to him. You owe me _this_. You owe _him_ this. He will not survive it. You will _kill_ him. I don’t care if he does not remember me, I don’t care if there is none of me inside whatever he is trying to protect, but Noona, I will not survive it if—if—“

He cannot complete the words, cannot even begin to think of them or to fathom an existence where the hypothetical becomes the reality or to entertain a future where Minhyung does survive the surgery and retains everything he knows of Donghyuck because even hoping feels as if he has worn a noose— these hopes and expectations that have ruined him beyond what he recognizes himself as.

He, who is always hoping, and dreaming, and longing, and always, always, holding onto things that have no place in his life. Even when he finds himself unwilling to hope, the anticipation lives on in his gaze and perhaps, it is this gaze that compels Eunji to cup his face and to press her forehead against his, her tears falling into the spaces between them, coalescing with his own, and she, saying, “I’m sorry, Donghyuck-ah, I’m so sorry.”

In this tiny room, four white walls closing into them, his arms itching with pain, his chest burning with acid, and the death of something precious in the air, he wonders what she really is apologizing for.

* * *

He is sitting outside by the courtyard. This time yesterday, he’d been prepping dinner while Minhyuck fiddled with the guitar with Minhyung by his side. The rain began slowly then, with Van Gogh painting the sky a startling blue even as the sun dipped in the distance. Right now, there is none of that blue.

In fact, everything that should have been colored has left leaving his vision a monochrome of black and whites and greys all around like ancient photographs discovered in hidden shoeboxes.

They must have wheeled Minhyung into the operating room by now. Have they opened his head up yet? Have they dug into his brain to filter out the parts that are killing him knowing they are doing the same?

He fantasizes running down the white halls, evading all the interns and nurses and doctors to barge into the operating theater with a flare then grabbing the scalpel and whatever sharp items he can get his hands on, he will hold it in front of Minhyung unconscious body, brain pouring from the white of his bone in the corner of his eyes to dare any one of them to come near. 

He laughs, runs a hand through his hair, then his face, coming away wet again even though the sky has dried. A flock of birds sails from the clouds, the sound of their wings carrying across wind and sky, and smooth in his palm, the journal rests like a bag of stones. He takes a breath, then, he opens to page one.


	33. Chapter 33

Often, in their youth, Minhyung would read to him. It was during those days where every moment seemed to have been tinted as pink as the hours before a falling sun and life seemed to cruise through by way of mundane evenings. As many nights as he’d succeeded, occupied by white moons and the fluorescent glows hung low from the ceiling, he would nudge his way into Minhyung’s side to beg with a face and a voice he knew Minhyung could not resist and ask for the things Minhyung would never deny him of.

He was like that, his Minhyung Hyung. His Minhyung Hyung who'd treated him more preciously than anyone else. In truth, where the murkiest flames of reason burned, he'd known Lee Minhyung, by society’s norm, was not a good person. He was often callous with his words, cruel in his actions, and found amusement in his disregard for people who could not meet his standards.

He'd remembered the fear of all the boys who came from less prominent families, and he'd remembered the tears of all the girls who fought for Minhyung’s attention, and all the broken bones of less fortunate children, and all the insults and abuse at the maids and helpers who were too slow or too fast or too loud or too quiet, and he’d seen Lee Minhyung who stood above them all, not by the shield of his name, but by the honest belief that the entire world was his to dictate and own because the world had owed him.

Lee Minhyung who was a scumbag even amongst scumbags.

But the same Lee Minhyung who'd gazed the world with scorn and had carried himself with hubris was the same Lee Minhyung who'd looked upon him with the kindest eyes, who'd told him things no one had ever told him before, who would have willingly given him the world if he’d only asked in spite of him undeserving of it, knowing he had achieved nothing but to have been born to the right woman who’d died at the right time.

He'd felt special and he'd saw it as an honor or a blessing from the universe as if in apology for all that he had lost. And consequently, in his memories, before his eyes, and all the roads he had taken, Minhyung had shined brighter than anything he had ever known, like the pure glimmers of the sun when reflected off the curves of the sea, though in his mind, the intense luster of his brilliance never dimmed, not when night fell, not when storms brewed, not even when the world was at its death. That light, it was warm. That radiance, it was wondrous. And it was only his to behold.

It was like that—their relationship and unhealthy codependency with one another which at that time, had never occurred to Donghyuck as anything more than the purest form of connection that transcended what they called love. For him, it’d been more than the fidelity between family, greater than the passions of a lover, more powerful than life, more permanent than death.

If they’d called him names and degraded him as nothing more than the charity case of the illustrious Lee family, then that was fine too. It worried him little. There were more important things he’d found his concern in, like developing ways to keep Minhyung’s attention or to ensure that his tenderness and endearment towards him never strayed beyond the lines of his existence.

He'd been greedy like that. Greedy for Minhyung’s eyes, greedy for Minhyung’s touch. He was easily jealous too, and if his heart was honest, there was no one he was more jealous of than Lee Minhyung himself simply because he was Lee Minhyung who wore the flesh and skin of his Minhyung Hyung and held access to his Hyung’s most inner thoughts.

When they were children, he’d imagined everyone having zippers running down the middle of their chest, and he’d seen himself pulling apart Minhyung’s, then crawling into the hollow space inside, he would seal the skin once more so that Minhyung would always have him wherever he went.

He did not want any discrepancies between them. He could not bear it if Minhyung had memories he did not have and saw the things he’d not seen and met people he did not know saying the things he’d never heard. Everything that was Minhyung and everything that would be Minhyung, he’d wanted to bear witness to it all like an author who knew every word to a novel he’d written or a filmmaker who could pinpoint every scene and dialogue he’d directed.

But realistically, he was no author nor filmmaker and it was not possible for him to stick himself to Minhyung’s side the way he’d wished it. And so, he sought to reconcile the missed moments with the quiet hours of the nights when everyone had already retired for the day but he would stay up late to sneak into Minhyung’s room and find in himself any excuse, any justification to rationalize his neediness and urgency by which no words in this world could ever disclose.

Often, during these nights, he found Minhyung reading in his bed, and always, he would climb in wordlessly and carelessly, fold himself into the dents of the mattress which have long formed itself to copy the molds of his body, and each time, Minhyung would read out loud the passages belonging to books that could never hold his attention for long. The contents of these novels, an odd mixture of science fiction mixed with the casual collection of existentialism usually flew over him.

He could not make heads or tails or arms or legs or toes or fingers of them but this too, mattered little. What he'd drunk with a fervency and an almost religious ardor gaze in his expressions were the tame timbre of Minhyung’s voice, his heat which landed hot on his sides, the birth and fall of the in-between. In his vision, every word Minhyung read cemented an earnest humanity only he was allowed to receive and every page he turned was an altruistic act on his behalf.

Veritably, he found himself undeserving of it as if one day by chance or by fate, Minhyung would wake up and realize the lack of worth in him and see all the holes and dark spaces he’d hidden from his view, and how underneath all the good things he’d tried to parade, there lie twice as many bad things that haunted him but could not be separated from who he was and when finally, Minhyung recognized all these truths, what would stop him from being abandoned?

Day after day, he woke up with anticipation and with fear and in Minhyung’s eyes, in Minhyung’s embrace, in Minhyung’s words, he would search for what he could not bear to part from and day after day, Minhyung would give what he’d hunted as if to return what belonged to him.

He had not understood it at first. If Minhyung remembered, if Minhyung still remembers, all those fire days marked by solstices, all those skies painted cerulean beyond their eyes, all those piano notes and white sheets blown by the wind like wild storms, all those hills, mounds, brilliance sifting through willows behind the estate, in front of all those sunsets, underneath all those fulgent fireworks below their lashes, all those stories cauterized in the folds of their mind, all those outsiders who sneered and claimed them disillusioned, all those sunflowers that decorated the halls of the mansion, all those hydrangeas that scented the air of the study, all those rain, all those light, all those seasons, all those months, all those days, all those warmth, all those tenderness, and sincerity—all those promises uttered inside their breaths, if Minhyung truly remembered, why had he done the things he did and spoken the things he said?

A better man would have thought it through and examine what he knew to fill in the spaces with clearer reflections but instead, he’d doubted Minhyung the way he’d done, spitted hateful words and speculated such bitter thoughts, there was nothing he could do but to hurt the only person who could ever forgive him for everything he has ever done.

The two of them—they are like that. Lee Donghyuck who hurt. Lee Minhyung who forgives. This vicious cycle of owing debts, of repaying sins, of beginnings and ends with the middle invisible to their eyes.

Lee Minhyung who loves him more than he ever could himself.

Lee Donghyuck who would not allow himself to believe it until it took a reckless pregnancy, an accident, and ten years of missing, ten years of regrets, ten dreadful years where they had not allowed themselves to be the people they were only hiding the ghosts of their doubts in the light of their innocence, searching for remnants of the things that have already died, always wondering if they would ever forget and fearing when they would as they reopened scars, again and again, in terror that they would one day fade until there was nothing but craters in their heart.

Sometime long after he has finished the journal and the currents of the night ran cold in his eyes which have begun to damp once again whether from the chill or his sorrow, he finds himself feeling heavier than he has ever felt as if he’d carried the entire ocean with him unknowingly and if he loses even the slightest bit of his concentration, it would seep from the orifices of his body to flood the entire world and there would be nothing left for the thorns in his life to reconcile with any of the senses he has always been trying to make. Minhyung’s handwriting has been branded behind his lids so that even when the pages have closed and the words have already blended into the blackness of the night, he could still see the small round letters as clearly as he would have during the height of a summer’s day.

This is how Yukhei finds him, slouched on the bench, his figure hunched into itself as if to hide from the world and with the journal held to his chest, he pushes the leather hard into his bony sternum so that perhaps by force or miracle, the documentation and proofs inside would ooze from their origins to bleed into his clothes and once his clothes have been marinated in Minhyung’s words, they would drain into his skin and through his skin, trickle into his body to wash all the doubts and fears he has never learned to discard and when it has been done, inside him, there would be nothing but the truths he has no courage to bear.

Yukhei drapes his sweater across his shoulder but he cannot register its warmth or its softness or the patience and benevolence Yukhei has always imparted on him disregarding his lackluster reaction to them and he thinks to himself what is it about him that attracts those who are kind and those who are good like intelligent people who smoked even knowing the consequences.

He cannot say he is ignorant to them because ignorance would imply a lack of knowledge and he’d lacked anything but, yet still, he’d found himself encouraging it because he could not stand not being needed or wanted or had it been him who could not stand not needing or wanting?

Finally, without looking and without feeling, he asks Yukhei, “What do you like about me?”

He has never asked Yukhei that question. There has never been an occasion to. But really, it had been because of his confidence that whatever came out of Yukhei’s mouth, it would not be what he wanted to hear. Even then, he knew he would not believe them, those sacred words meant for Haechan, those precious feelings he would not let Haechan receive because inside him lives pain of such insurmountable proportions feeding the memories of a life he could never rid himself of even in death, there hadn't been any room for more. 

“Everything. I like everything about you, Lee Haechan,” Yukhei says and he lifts his head to meet his eyes holding a warmth he had not known eyes could hold even with all the disappointment he has given him and he sobs into Yukhei’s chest, not in gratefulness for his sincerity but because even in the face of such honest words, he cannot find it in himself to feel an ounce of its heat, nor retain a sense of its ardor because they’d sounded as hollow as the shells Minhyuck would thrust into his ears, and it comes to him then that there exist no words that which holds the power to move his battered heart.

“Thank you, Yukhei Hyung. Thank you for liking me,” he says and Yukhei holds him a little tighter and somewhere above them, a few stories and rooms away, he thinks of Minhyung who is fighting to live.

* * *

In the fifth hour of Minhyung’s surgery, they return to Minhyuck’s room where he finds him awake, frantic with confusion, and Renjun who is trying to calm him with much effort. The rest of the group is nowhere to be found and he doesn’t have enough energy in him to care for their whereabouts.

He marches to the bed where Minhyuck stops then, his thrashing falling into a complete stillness as if he’d been struck by something startling, and for a long second, he imagines himself shaking his small body still attached to the transparent wires and cold machines and ask him if he knows what he has done to him, to Minhyung, to all of them, if any of it had been worth it but in Minhyuck’s face, he sees himself, a child who’d known nothing but the presence of one person, who’d craved nothing but the embrace of his Hyung, and as rigid and as shocking Minhyuck had been only moments earlier, he realizes with remarkable comprehension on how old he has become. Everything leaves him then, the realization, the silence, the anger until he feels just as empty as he’d felt when he’d kept them all and so he draws Minhyuck into his arms to satiate the gap.

“Minhyuck,” he says and once again, “Minhyuck,” because it is the only noise that will leave his lips, and then they are both holding onto each other as if there has never been a time where they have been apart.

He thinks of Minhyuck, when he’d been beginning to walk and how it’d took him twice the time it took a normal child because he did not want to see him fall or to break skin, not after the time he’d let his guards down and allowed his reckless emotions to overwhelm him causing the scar near Minhyuck’s eye.

With an almost neurotic mindset, he’d taken all measures to carry Minhyuck everywhere, on his back, in his arms, wrapped tight around his waist, and if he couldn’t he would take the stroller with him all across the town, through rocky roads and uneven paths, and regardless of how bruised his arms became or how his muscles ached after a long day, he had not for the slightest moment been tempted to put Minhyuck down.

If it had been up to him, he would not permit what Minhyung had given to him for the last time, to be hurt, to be broken, or to be sad, and instead, he’d pray, if catastrophe and pain were unavoidable, then let him bear the consequences alone for seeing Minhyuck in anguish hurt him more than anything ever could.

But the him at that time had not understood that the world does not work that way. You do not pray to take one’s misfortune away or to make promises to endure it on their behalf or to own their tragedies the way you’d thought you own them. You do not hide all the misery, to present only the beautiful sceneries, and you do not seek to fill in yourself with what you find in them. You do not fight their battles and conjure deceitful pretenses and make false promises for one moment of trust.

And at 27, Lee Donghyuck begins to truly see. 


	34. Chapter 34

Donghyuck is sitting on Minhyuck’s bed. The lower half of his body is sprawled awkwardly on both mattress and floor and Minhyuck has draped himself on his torso, commandeered by a pair of pale arms longer than he’d remembered them being.

It is the evening and the room has been emptied upon his insistence. No matter their good intentions, Renjun and Yukhei’s presence had only amplified his anxiety as if he could not quite make sense of the two personas in him and though he’d found his actions edging ungratefulness, he could not deny the relief that had flooded his guts when the room had returned to its quietness once more, free of Renjun’s chattering and Yukhei’s coddling.

For the next hour and a half, he remains in this position to bask in the peace. Minhyuck has become an appendage to his body after the emotional turmoil they had gone through only moments prior and holding him close, he runs his fingers through Minhyuck's hair, humming little tunes from the cartoons he is so fond of. He observes the way Minhyuck fights the urge to sleep with the stubbornness of a marathon runner. 

He’d been that way once. The fear of falling asleep in the warmth of someone’s arms only to wake to their absence. Ironically, he’d been the one who left. Leaving to avoid being left behind only to realize later that there is no difference between the two fates. To leave or to be left, it is all the same, though, there is so much emphasis on the actual act that people don’t realize that often, it is the aftermath of the wreckage that is the most difficult to deal with. It is easy to leave. And it is easy to stay too. But what about everything that comes after? Who will take responsibility for all the pain following the storm? 

Maybe it was this cowardice that had pushed them apart. Of course, it had been about the legacy too but in retrospect, his sensitivity had been fed by his doubts and despite Minhyung’s reassurance, he had always been a child who concerned himself with the words of those around him and even of those who he did not know. If he had found it in himself to trust what he knew instead of spiraling into what he did not, what would the world look like now?

His eyes wet with these thoughts and he stifles his whimpers with a hard bite on his tongue. Minhyuck stirs in his arms once and when he is sure he will not move again until morning comes, he leaves the room to walk the halls, sterile environment having become perversely muted with the end of visiting hours. 

He does this a few times, pacing the long stretches of white tiles and white floors accompanied by the smell of antiseptics and the unnaturally clean shine reflected off bright fluorescents until he finds himself in front of a vending machine by the elevators. He is debating between an Americano or something sweet when the doors open with a loud rumble common to old buildings, and he sees Jeno who is holding hands with Eunji’s son.

Minwoo, his mind helpfully supplies, drawing from Minhyung’s journal, and he begins to break into a sprint to run back to the safety of Minhyuck’s room where he can hide from the things that haunt him until he is halted by Jeno’s firm grip on his wrist which inevitably burns as if his skin has been held to a campfire. His first reaction is to slap the hand away, the limb offending him with its mere existence but Minwoo is staring at him with these big round eyes and he cannot help the way his heart softens. 

Later, when they are both holding cans of Americano in their hands and Minwoo has his strawberry milk in his, they make their way to the same courtyard he’d spent the afternoon at. They are both quiet for a long time and Minwoo, bothered by the lull, skips to one of the nearby bushes where fireflies have now overtaken the row of shrubs. In his vision, their brilliant blush paints behind his lids like specks of gold, and he’d been content with watching in silence until Jeno’s murmurs break into the peace.

He strains to catch his voice and Jeno repeats, “How is Minhyuck doing?” and even though he is aware Jeno knows how Minhyuck is doing, he entertains him by saying, “Fine.” The curtness surprises no one and maybe they are both thinking of it, how even this is more than what Jeno deserves. He throws his head back to chug the rest of the can and when he is done, he crushes it in his hand, cheap aluminum cutting into the dry, callous lines of his palm.

Jeno drills a complicated stare into his façade and in the distance, he sees Minwoo who has crouched like a forest fawn, his arms extended into the levitating gold. He is so small and if it were not for the bugs, the night would have easily swallowed him whole unbeknownst to the rest of the world.

Masochistically, his mind draws images of Minhyuck, the violent shores of the island, ragged edges of a majestic cliff, the end of one reality, and the birth of another. He clenches his eyes as hard as he does with his fist only allowing himself to relax when Jeno pries the ruined can from his fingers. 

“We didn’t mean for any of this to happen, Donghyuck-ah,” he says and his voice cuts particularly loud through the air delivering the last evidence of a storm having passed. “You are so precious to us. We would never—we would never—“ 

The lost words, though meant to be apologetic, seem to have carried a sense of justification. Of course, he’d known no one had wanted any of this to have happened but it had, and he’d hurt, and now they’re stuck in this awful deadlock no one had asked to be in, so who should take responsibility? He, who cannot forget. Minhyung, who cannot let go. Minhyuck, Minwoo, Eunji, Jaemin, Jeno, Ahjumma—who can he blame now? Who should he direct his anger and malice to and who can he beg to fix it all? Perpetrator and victim, they are all the same. 

For the last ten years, it’d felt as if he lived a life inside the bottom of a bottle as he depended on one light and one truth that had filtered from the neck and he’d lived with this simplicity to allow his ignorance to dictate his life but with Minhyung’s reemergence, it was as if the bottle had become porous with his every word and every action, a thousand lights, a thousand truths breaking into the cracks with the roar of shifting mountains, blinding his sight, deafening his world, and him, bathe in the scorching heat of Minhyung’s presence—his Minhyung Hyung, his precious, beloved Hyung who he can die for, who he had lived for, who he had hurt and continues to hurt for. 

His left hand, the one that hasn’t been cut and bruised, rises to rest on Jeno’s, and he knows he cannot meet his eyes, he probably would not be able to, not for a long time, but this feels like a compromise of sorts. If he doesn’t think too much of it, it feels as if they’ve gone back in time, becoming children once again.

In that classroom, with those other children and instructors who only saw their names, they’d sat side by side, him, Jeno, and Jaemin, the three of them like Hades’ Cerberus, with him in the middle because Minhyung had made them swear their fealty to him, and they’d done it, not because of Minhyung’s threats, but because they’d truly loved him. The two of them, who’d never saw him as anyone else but their own, cherished and treated him like a brother because even though the relationship they’d shared was unlike the relationship between him and Minhyung, it had not meant it’d weighted any less. 

That terrible world, filled with greed, with blood, and him, surviving in the shelter of their care, friendship, and allegiance. Jeno and Jaemin, even Eunji, they will never hurt him, not purposely, and if there is any hurt at all, then it must have pained them as much as it does to him. Even so, he cannot find kindness in himself to forgive.

Claiming to have committed a mistake in the name of another does not negate the consequences that come after. The moment you make that decision for someone, you have committed the gravest sin of all for there is no greater crime than to rob a person of a choice.

This is why he cannot forget and forgive. This is why he knows Minhyung will not forgive him either despite their attachment to one another. It is because of this attachment that they cannot. There is so much in them, so much that they have carried and lugged and so much more that they have yet to learn to let go that they cannot possibly bear more. 

He cannot forgive but he desires to. 

So, from where he has rested his palm on top of Jeno’s hands which have gone cold from the frigid evening, his fingers seek to embrace Jeno’s, the lengths disproportionately unorganized because Jeno have always had bigger hands than his, and in a voice he fights to make, he confesses, “I’m scared,” and again, he repeats, “I’m scared, Jeno,” and he says no more because there is so much he has become frightened of, it is almost as if there is nothing that will not scare him anymore. He cannot see the end, cannot even imagine the existence of one. 

“Me too,” Jeno begins to say, “But Donghyuck-ah, whatever happens, you will always have us. It cannot replace what you and Hyung have, but you have to know, you are just as important to us. Before anything else, you are cherished, Lee Donghyuck. Before anything else, all we have ever wanted is for you to be happy.” 

He feels a bit lightheaded and he cannot remember when his last meal had been but strangely, his guts stir hard in his stomach as he tries to focus on Jeno’s voice which has begun to sound far away and Minwoo in the distance who has become unfocused as if his eyes were lenses and someone had let out a breath of hot air over his vision, fogging his world. 

At last, he hears Jeno say, “Your happiness—with or without Hyung, we want to help you find it.” 

He nods into Jeno’s palm that has come to his face, his breaths shuddering into the soft lines, and Jeno kisses his forehead and he says, “You’ll always have him,” he says. “And you’ll always have us too. But it’s time to give your heart a break. You owe it to yourself. And you owe it to Minhyuck.” 

And he knows then, this is the one truth that will not change. It does not erase all the lies he has been told, all the pain he has received and all the pain he has dealt himself, but he knows, with unwavering certainty, he cannot heal if he does not wish for it. It begins with him—to acknowledge that they have all made mistakes, that they are all victims to the consequences, that he must learn to forgive himself before he can forgive anyone else.

For every hateful word they have thrown at one another, for every hurt they have inflicted in accidence, in spite, for every selfish choice they have made in each other’s names, for every false happiness, he sees his body, bound by these awful, ugly decisions and he sees himself breaking from them, their strangulating coils snapping from his skin until he is free to walk away from it all. 

His hands begin to shake from the realization and on his lap, they convulse like micro-repulsions of magnets, and Jeno is calling his name and the last lights of the evening have departed now, and then without his notice, Minwoo has come to stand in front of him, his hands cupped and extended, and in the dome of his palm, he shows him the firefly he has caught, and he starts to say, “Ahjussi,” and he thinks Minwoo is talking to Jeno but when he looks up, a pair of glaringly bright eyes stands clear in the haze of the night, and Minwoo says, “For Minhyuck Hyung.” 

* * *

Out of everything Minhyung has lost, what remains with stubborn conviction is what he desperately wishes to lose. The first night it'd happened, it'd been a week after he’d returned from Canada, from that condominium with its glass windows and dust settling on unused furniture and a cradle that would never have the chance to hold a life.

He’d been confused at first when he woke, mind groggy and aching and the world falling in and out of focus, and he’d sat in the empty room, on that empty bed, sheet and skin growing colder by the moment from where it had been exposed and despite the heat plunging from the vents, he could not quiet the ugly panic in his chest where a million rocks had made a home inside the tissues so that with every breath he took, the weight of their bodies grew larger to drag all the organs in his cavity lower. 

When his mind finally caught up, when he finally registered where his traitorous psyche had brought him to, he’d screamed but his mouth made no sound. He’d cried but he shed no tears. Instead, his body had moved on its own accord, to sweep a look around the hotel room, and he’d known then, he’d become a mere audience of his memories.

By the door, where there were supposed to be two suitcases, there was now only one, and inside the closet from where they’d hung their down jackets to let dry from the snowstorm that had caught them by surprise, he saw only his. Their shoes, their backpacks, the matching knitted scarves Donghyuck had convinced him to wear—the room seemed larger, open spaces where things had once occupied.

Later, after revisiting this moment, night after night, he would know there was something else Donghyuck had taken with him too, something he would never get back even with his return, but that morning, when he’d woke, he could only focus on what had been presented to him. 

And then, he’d found himself thinking, _move, you have to move, you have to get him back,_ but instead, he’d stayed as still as a rock and despite his best efforts, regardless of what he’d told himself at that moment, time after time, he did not go.

First, he’d counted the creases on the bed from where he could still make out traces of Donghyuck’s body, then he’d clutched Donghyuck’s pillow in his hands as he'd imagined it to be his hair, then he’d caught the lingering fragrance of Donghyuck’s cologne, and finally, when he’d ran out of things to count and things to hold, he’d found himself murmuring what Donghyuck had told him only months ago in July with his watermelon breath and airless gasps soaring to the summer sky and then he’d remembered what he’d promised in return, and only then, did he lift himself to throw on his clothes from the previous day, leaving his luggage, leaving his jacket, leaving the last memories of Donghyuck, and then finally, he’d gone to his car. 

He drove aimlessly and recklessly, road signs and traffic lights faded beyond his eyes, focused on a single point in the horizon where Busan’s coast met the lines of the sky, and he could have passed Donghyuck by, but he did not care. On and on, he saw the end of the world as it dragged closer, then closer still. From his peripheral, he’d heard the grating roll of giant wheels on cracked asphalt advancing from the intersection he was approaching, the bright yellow front of the truck catching the corners of his eyes.

These memories disguised as dreams were as palpable as the weight of the gas pedal pressed under his foot, the desire to run the contraption into the ground and then the release of his hands from the wheels, always ending just before the truck rams into the passenger side of his car. But he will always remember those last feelings of the last summer following his thoughts before the world became black. Spite, betrayal, vindictiveness, he’d wanted to pay Donghyuck back in ten-fold even if it meant it had to come from his death. 

It is a cruel joke to know that despite having an illness that capitalizes on lost memories, he can never seem to lose what he wants to forget the most like a sentence for once holding such vengeful feelings against Donghyuck who had needed him the most. Because he could not deny, in his fury, he had wanted it.

Even for a split second, a heartbeat before unbearable pain exploded behind his eyes, he wanted Donghyuck’s pain. He wanted Donghyuck tears and hurt and sorrow when the news finally arrives to him in wherever he had taken himself to, that he’d died in an accident after he’d gone for him, that he’d died for him, because of him. 

If suffering and anguish and mourning had been all that Donghyuck could have given him, then he wanted to make it worth it. Years later, after all his revisiting, musing, and dissecting, he would not feel this way but it could not change the fact that he’d once did. 

He sees the truck now, hears the roar of its power, loud and violent in his ears even muffled by glass, and the weight of the pedal presses heavily under his bare sole but for once he does not take that step. Instead, he quickly switches to brake, hitting the lines of the intersection, and he does not allow himself to breathe until the truck passes him by. Then, automatically, he is moving again to cruise the road leading to the coast.

When the path ends and fierce blue has colored his view, he exits the car and the snow is cold on his naked feet but he sees how the sky has fallen to the sea and the water has begun to reach for the clouds, and there, at the edge, he sees him, waiting, always waiting. 

With his heart full, he calls for his name. 


	35. Chapter 35

Minhyung had always known. These simple truths, as honest as young children, as undeniable and irrefutable as the laws of a sovereign. No explanation had been needed. The proper principles that had governed his relationship with Lee Donghyuck were enough of an answer. This understanding came without ambiguity, the way you understood the classification of seasons or the orders of the months.

In fact, the more he’d understood, the more he’d feared because, for a long time, he’d introduced Donghyuck as his brother. They were not brothers, not by blood nor by law, and still, he’d insisted on the title even when they had done things no brothers should have done with one another. Realization and aversion, they’d come hand in hand. He’d let these things consume him until he was constantly fearing the loss of his place in Donghyuck’s life. 

If they could not be lovers, were they friends? How could he be friends with someone who'd occupied every fraction of his heart? Then, if they could not be friends, would they have had become strangers? Strangers or a brother he’d defiled, what was worse? 

In hindsight, it had been a love that was over before it even began. Earnestly longing for someone, sincerely hungering for their affection, and despair, always, always, lingering between every moment. He’d waited like a parched stray dog. Even in his youth, he could not claim himself blinded.

He’d seen the world as clear as the fresh waters of a small stream. Whether they were lovers, brothers, strangers, what did it all mattered? Whether they were happy, whether they despaired, if there existed affection or animosity, could they not have continued life by each other side? 

After all, what was love without hate? How could they be mutually exclusive of one another? They did not have a meaningful meeting nor a beautiful parting, it only makes sense everything in between would be just as ugly as well. 

A relationship as dirty as theirs’ deserves no glory nor God. 

* * *

He wakes into the void, hyper-aware of the way his arm strains against itself as if to break from skin in its journey to reach for a target he’d been seeking, though the desire has already begun to recede from his mind.

He takes a weak breath and from where his eyes roll downwards, fog fills the oxygen mask he is wearing. He finds himself reaching again, for empty air or the warmth of a body, and as strength pours into a finger, the world grows cold. 

He dreams about the first time he’d gone to Sunshine Town, late July. From the bus, through the roads, up the hill, then, standing at the edge of the cliff where he’d begun to think about Donghyuck. He is always thinking of Donghyuck but he remembers, that afternoon, he’d thought of him with such intensity, his yearning almost violent in its fervor as he commemorated their memories, he had this strange silly thought, if the winds holding him at that very moment, had once held Donghyuck too, could that be considered an embrace? Donghyuck had always evoked these strange, strange thoughts from him. He peers into the deep ends of the strait. Then he is falling, breaking through the wind. 

Something raucous tunnels into his space, then there are white glares spilling behind his eyes. Close the curtains, he hears, and it is dark again. He is alighted in flames, from his ribs to the knobby joints of his limbs, and still, cold seeps in between the margins, and so he thinks of winters in Seoul, and the nights spent alone, and finally, the frigid waters below the cliff from where he’d fell.

Minhyuck. He parts his lips. Minhyuck, he says. But there is no sound. And so, he tries again and again and again and the constant high-pitched chaos has risen all around him now, his throat both dry and wet, and his vision, furious white with shadows near and far. Minhyuck, he tries again. Someone grabs his hand. 

Have they heard? 

There are fewer shadows the next time he becomes aware. It is quieter too and it comes to him shortly, the perpetual ringing that had accompanied him earlier has pacified. The mask must be off too and he knows this because as soon as he takes a breath, it becomes harder for him to gather his next.

“Minhyung,” he hears. “Minhyung Hyung.” 

But it is not his name they should be calling for, and so again, he says, Minhyuck, but it comes crooked as if the letters have been scrambled on the way from his throat and when finally, it becomes too painful to talk or to think or to grasp at the still heat in his space, he begins to cry then, and someone has begun to apologize to him, his face in the rough palms of this awful, mangled, voice, and then they are both crying, these ugly, ugly tears falling into the space between them, and even if it saddens him, even if a foul stinging has taken home in his chest, he cannot stop their tears, nor their sorrow, and so he goes to sleep again, with these somber thoughts settled in his heart. 

Later, they will tell him, for several days, he’d gone through these courses of reality and dream, of crying and moaning and laughing, and he will say it had only felt like moments, until suddenly, one evening, he wakes with clarity of his vision like a windshield that has been cleansed, and his muscles slow, but his mind focused as one would have been upon being submerged into glacial waters.

And he’d been so tired, of not knowing, of going back and forth between pain and confusion, this acute minute of self-awareness feels as if a stranger has made a home inside his mind. 

Taeyong is the first to greet him. Then a flurried of white coats, blue scrubs, the vexing sensation of instruments trespassing his territory. “Hold my fingers”, he hears, and so he holds the fingers, and he hadn’t known he could do that until he did.  
  


“Breathe for me”, and so he does; “look here, look there, can you hear me?” he hears, and while he grows irritated at these commands, he can only seek their guidance. Underneath his hand, something sharp burns its way up, and once again, he is out. 

When he comes to, there is Eunji, looking haggard and disproportionate and exhausted and as if she had been holding up a mirror, he sees this same fatigue reflected in himself. He blinks, though, he figures he must have fallen asleep because when color floods his vision again, the sky outside has become two shades darker.

There are sparrows resting on the ledge just outside his window and he recalls there had been a sparrow too, just like the ones before his eyes, summers ago, and would it not have been fate if among them existed the one he’d seen? 

He counts them, one, two, three, and as he reaches four, he blinks to see that the sky has become remarkably blue. Then there is Jeno, and he blinks again for Jaemin, then again, for Taeyong. Soon, he grows weary of it all, the sudden changes, the last vestiges of a moment, that he decides to keep his eyes close instead, and for a long, long time, it feels as if the universe has stopped. 

* * *

One weekend after his physical therapy, he is allowed outside where he discovers he has grown sensitive to the sun. He’s had theories about this change for the past few days now but perhaps it is a small sacrifice to make in exchange for what he’d been given in return. 

And so, leaving the confines of four white walls and long bleached hallways smelling of striking misery, he is wheeled into the courtyard, and from the steps that separate the space between land and building, he finds the strength to make it to the stone benches, the same way he’d learned in his lessons.

Then he is sitting, besides this cedar tree that shields no sun, palming and tracing the side of his torso, and all around him, he smells the humidity of an early June summer. 

Alone, he thinks of nothing because everything he can think of has been thought of and what good is it to recycle silly, useless reflections as if to peel at a scar that no longer bleeds or a wound that has been frayed of all nerves and thus robbing him of any satisfaction of self-pity or painful musings he’d let himself wallow in for the longest time.

And so again, for the next few days, every other afternoon, he gets thirty minutes alone in this dingy yard, and really, he doesn’t like it as much as he thinks he should be liking it. Perhaps, he feels compelled or obliged to like this small slither of freedom he has been granted but in truth, he finds no comfort nor peace, and when reminded of his deficiency, he allows guilt to creep upon him.

What is more ironic is that there is no remorse for this guilt, so sitting there, he lets the things concerning sky, sun, and humanity to dissolve from him like the faded visages of a white noise world. He is like a small child with the intelligence of an adult who cannot be amused by these simple things as he once would have been delighted by. 

Occasionally, he would itch to write or to approach Jaemin or Jeno to ask them the kind of things he has always wanted to ask them about but as it turns out, even brain surgery cannot remove his cowardice.

There is something to be said about a person’s facilities or lack thereof when they are pushed to the edge and yet, accepts it for what it is. He’s been walking the edge for as long as he has known of its existence, even have been pushed over it multiple times, and still, he cannot free from his fears.

Timid at mind and greedy at heart, there is nothing he would allow himself to do to break from this perversion. Thus, courage passes him by, and so does May, and then it is June, five days before Donghyuck’s 28th birthday, and he still has yet to see him since that horrid night. 

In this realization, not of Donghyuck’s absence because it is an awareness that is always within him, but of the approaching date, he begins to develop this bizarre thought of gifting him a present and it is such an outlandish thought, he finds himself laughing beside the useless cedar, the top of his head, as hot as a rod of steel.

He laughs until he cries and he’s never done that before and so, he cannot find it in himself to stop, his voice beginning to carry across the heat with a gradual pain that starts from his stomach.

His staccato breaths catch between the passages of his neck and so he clutches onto the sun that has been engraved onto his flesh until he is feeling the individual ridges of his ribs, howling until there is only silence in the summer spell. 

* * *

But once the thought has been planted inside his head, like the tall bothersome weeds of suburban plains or more crudely, bacteria which have overtaken his brain, which has been exacerbated by the heat, it becomes difficult to rid himself of this ludicrous development.

There is nothing his mind will allow him to focus on, so in therapy, he imagines the stress balls he’s been given as balloons, and at night, before sunset, he traces ribboning pink streaks across the sky, and as soon as he wakes into the brightness of a dull white room, the ends of his psyche desperately chase the last images of Donghyuck, in this ridiculous party hat, golden face vandalized with cake, voice calling for his Minhyung Hyung, and even then, he cannot stop. 

On Tuesday afternoon, the day before Donghyuck’s birthday, while he is again beside the cedar tree, a man pauses in his vicinity, whereupon he realizes he is being ignored, takes the seat next to him.

And he knows then, even before the stranger introduces himself, before he is handed a portfolio of incriminating photos, before he is given a choice to pay for the silence of this man or to sacrifice all the innocent people he’d dragged into this mess with, he's made his choice long before he’d even realized he has one.

People like them, those who scavenged on the misery of others have no limit. When it comes to dealing with such horrible things, only a bigger, and more horrible thing can succeed it. And so, the man gives him one horrible thing and in return, he gives the man an even more gruesome thing. 

And this, will be his birthday present to Lee Donghyuck.

* * *

**Head of Lee Conglomerate Under Investigation for Embezzlement**

**South Korean Executive Arrested for Embezzlement; to be Trial in Seoul Central District Court**

**CEO Pleads Guilty for Embezzling 100 Billion Won at 20**

**Lee Minhyung (30) Sentenced to Five Years in Prison for Embezzlement Scheme**


	36. Chapter 36

The elders of the village have always said that a person’s name determined their destiny. Therefore, it was critical to choose a good name for your child. You did not want to choose the wrong name and doom your offspring to a lifetime of misery. It was an old wives tale that stemmed from generations of superstitious beliefs which inherently held no ounce of truth to it but was continuously preserved through sheer stubbornness only.

I have always hated my name. There was no sound reason for it. In all fairness, it was a good name. Lee Minhyuck. To be clever, quick, and bright. Minhyuck-ah, that was what Appa called me. Minhyuck-ah, come eat dinner. Minhyuck-ah, did you finish your homework? Minhyuck-ah, let’s go home.

Lee, Minhyuck was a name chosen with love and it was also a name that caused sorrow.

As a child, it was hard to put a name to the feeling, but eventually, I’d learned the name associated with my own would be called guilt. Because even then, I’d known. Even then, when Appa pulled me into his arms, his hold gentle as if he were holding a newborn, fingers always cold, his cheek against the folds of my ear, and whispering, Minhyuck-ah, you’re my favorite, even then, I’d known, my existence had caused him a great sorrow of which no number of embraces, kisses, or words of adoration could fix.

There was nothing I would not have done for Appa. No demons and no monsters I would not have fought, and still, I had discovered it was my existence that was his greatest fear. A child is every parent’s greatest gift, and I was the root of all his despair.

Ahjussi, you must have known what you were doing when you gave me this name. Were you so selfishly absorbed in your own needs, your reassurance, you could not stand giving him the one thing that truly belonged to him, and so you sought to tie him in this way so that whenever he called for me, he would stutter on the first syllable, hold himself back, and re-center himself so that he would not call for a different name?

Ahjussi, what is it that adults called love?

That summer, we spent my tenth birthday huddled inside Appa’s room. Even with the curtains drawn, we could still see the distorting flashes of cameras, of the desperate shouts from all the reporters who thought they had a right into our lives.

I felt like an animal cornered and shamed and there was anger too, but it was a kind of mournful anger that held more fear than fury, and so, at ten, entering my adolescent years, I could only curl into a ball to secure myself against Appa, retaining the strongest urge to reenter his womb, and from there, I imagined myself to dematerialize inside so that there would be nothing left of me.

I had convinced myself the end of what had been a great summer came at my fault. Your arrival, your disappearance, Appa’s grief, Appa’s terrors, I saw these horrible, horrible things painted red in my hands. It was jarring how quickly everything fell when you are so concerned with your happiness and joy, you do not realize the rest of the world had already crumbled around you.

Ahjussi, when you came to Sunshine Town that May, when you called my name for the first time, and even before then, that winter in Seoul, were you aware of all the repercussions, all the misery and regret your appearance would reveal? Ahjussi, even then, did you think of us once?

I adored you, did you know? I adored your strange accent, your stories of the world, the way you called for my name, so different from the way Appa said it, but mostly, I adored the way you looked at Appa and the way he looked at you. I adored the way you listened to him, the things you would say to each other, on that balcony, at night, how careful, how attentive, gentle, and kind you were with him.

I adored you because Appa adored you.

And then came the end of the world and with it were the cameras, the reporters, the baseless gossip more ridiculous and dramatic with the next, and perhaps it was then, that my resentment for you grew.

I held none of it for you prior. I could not hate someone I had never met, but then we did meet, and I came to adore you, and with most things you adore, you come to hate them too.

I would have forgiven you, Ahjussi, the way I knew Appa had already done if only you came for us. But you never did and I could not find the courage in myself to go to you, and so the resentment grew larger than I could contain it. I resented you, I resented Appa, Minwoo, Eunji Imo, the fiery lights, the noisy neighbors, the overbearingness of everyone, but life stops for nothing, not even the bitterness of a prepubescent teenager, and so the year past just like that, and I was 11 and Appa was 29, and you were in jail for things I could not and did not want to comprehend.

We left Sunshine Town that autumn. I would later find out, you had left the estate under Appa’s name, and it would not matter to me until much later, but then, at eleven, I had followed Appa, as I had always done, out of Jeju-do, to the edges of Seoul, where a lonely mansion awaited us.

It must have seen its glory days but when we arrived, it was a sad-looking thing that held none of its grandiosity you would have expected from a grand estate. We traced the vines that crawled above the walls and drank in the dust with every breath but Appa had taken my hand and he’d stood underneath that chandelier inside the foyer heavy with filth, and he’d smiled, not at me, but above, as if he had seen something I did not, but it was the happiest I had seen him in so long, and so I smiled too.

I knew nothing then, only displeasure and indignation for how things had turned. I did not want to be in Seoul where it was hard to smell the sea or to find canolas over my eyes, where the wind felt harsh and punishing against my cheeks, but I was in Seoul, and once I was in Seoul, I could not leave, and with most things you hate, with enough exposure, you grow immune to them.

And so, we were in Seoul, Eunji Imo and Minwoo were in the states, and you were still incarcerated, and life went on and I was 12. Yukhei Samchon visited often. He took me to my first amusement park. I did not find it very amusing but I felt comforted by his familiar presence. There was Jeno and Jaemin Samchon too, who came over for dinner on the weekends. Renjun Samchon, who had been offered a position in Seoul, moved shortly after too.

Appa held private piano classes every other weekday. I did not even know he could play. There were many things I did not know about Appa. I only knew the things that made him sad. And there were many. The roof above the building in which I saw him snuck into several nights in a row; the garden which had begun to bloom green again; the baby grand piano we’d found in the basement; the library with molding books; his room, still furnished in the way it had been despite it being far from his usual taste, and mine, just directly across his.

Sometimes, his eyes would catch on the guitar you had given me and I could not bear the expression he would wear, but I also could not bear parting with your final gift to me, so I’d deigned to play in the nearby park instead. I did not want to cause any more of his sorrow but I could not let you go either.

It was a difficult predicament I found myself in and instead of dwelling in these useless thoughts, I threw myself into navigating the strange society of middle school, of friendships, and girls, and boys, and the things that should be amusing to a teenager like myself.

Birthdays became a strange occasion. I caught Appa once, the evening of my 13th, late into the night, when he’d snuck home hours after we had cut the cake, like a teenager who had done something he should not have done, and I remembered thinking he’d look so young then.

It was a side I did not know he had. Even without saying, I’d known he’d gone to visit you. After all, it was your birthday too. I thought about you, alone in that cold concrete building, the one I had searched up out of morbid curiosity, and even if I still held unnamed grudges against you, even if I had wished for your misery and peace in the same breath, you were still the Ahjussi I had adored one summer. You had him for one day while I had him for the rest. More than anger, I felt pity for you, Ahjussi.

You were both so old and young, so focused in that tiny world the two of you had barred yourself in, there was nothing else to see or feel except for each other. Whatever one felt was reflected off the other, and because there existed so little potential for happiness, there was only pain to mirror.

I pitied you, Ahjussi. But mostly, I missed what we could have been—you, me, and Appa. The both of you must have wanted me once, must have envisioned the kind of life we would have lived, the kind of happiness all of us deserved. Maybe it is not you I should pity but us, as a family.

And now I am 16, Appa is 34, and you are 37. It is summer again, and I cannot shake off the phantom warmth of your hand as it held mine that rainy day you picked me up from school. I am 16 and still, I cannot forgive you. But I see Appa, standing in front of you, and I see you, see the way you look at him and the way he looks at you and all the words left unsaid, all the apologies waiting to be delivered, all the waiting and repenting, all the adoration, and I hear him say,

“Hyung.”

Appa smiles and I do too.


End file.
